


Hope of the Damned

by Ellislash (MintSharpie)



Category: Left 4 Dead 2
Genre: Addiction, Adventure, Angst, Apocalypse, Drug Use, Found Family, Gen, Harm to Children, Love, M/M, Mental Illness, Mild Horror, Nellis, Not just romance btw, PTSD, Sex, Slow Burn, Violence, Zombies
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-03-23
Updated: 2017-11-09
Packaged: 2018-03-19 06:33:41
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 29
Words: 130,013
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3599889
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MintSharpie/pseuds/Ellislash
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Everyone's running from something, but the apocalypse is a chance to start anew. Can they survive long enough to rebuild themselves from the ashes?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This work was originally titled "Whole Other Story" and can be found on DeviantArt and FanFiction.net under the name Ellislash. Yes, that's me, I'm not stealing anything. Please note that everything up through chapter 22 was written in 2011/2012, while 23+ are from 2015 and on. Consequently, there may be some noticable changes in style, though I've gone back and done some editing to try and standardize it.
> 
> In addition, there is some casual ableism and sexism included. Most of this is due to the characters and their personalities (lookin' at you, Nick), but if I write something shitty in the narration, please let me know and I'll change it. I do my best to avoid that kind of thing, but nobody's perfect.
> 
> One last thing: I used to make GMod pictures as well, and some of them depicted scenes from this story. I've inserted a few of them where I felt they were appropriate, and other lovely artists have also contributed illustrations. These are noted and credited in the chapters in which they appear.

 Sometimes Ellis dreaded saferooms. He kept up his cheery facade for the benefit of the others, giving them hope and a smile even when the darkness crept in to bring his nightmares. Most nights he was too worn out to dream, physically exhausted from throwing himself completely into every fight with and flight from the infected. It was the quiet days, when attacks were rare and the others relaxed, that Ellis knew he wouldn’t sleep.

He’d take guard duty instead. Eyes scanning, ears perked, he focused every neuron on the task of keeping watch. But it was always quiet, too quiet, and not even Coach’s snores were enough to break the shell of silence. No matter how determined, Ellis’ thoughts inevitably strayed into the shadows, the black places he’d do anything to forget. When that happened he’d dig out a shot, and let a few drops of burning adrenaline under his skin. Just enough to keep awake. The rest went back in his pocket for next time.

In the morning Rochelle scolded him for staying up all night. He just smiled at her.

“Y’all really needed ta rest. I’m fine.”

He emptied the syringe into his veins when she turned away.

Ellis fled the silence for days that became weeks. Never slowing down enough to allow for self-reflection, he lived on instinct and adrenaline. It was a desperate, half-mad existence, but it worked.

Of course it was far from perfect. His constant upbeat chatter tended to grate on the others after a while, especially Nick. When Rochelle laughed quietly at his antics, and Coach shook his head with a tiny smile, the conman snarled. When Rochelle called him a sweetie and said it wasn’t the time, Nick called him a dumbshit and told him to shut up. For the most part Ellis could shrug it off, but deep down, in the dark place he couldn’t bear to see, it hurt.

Nick was the snag, the wrench in the engine that somehow kept Ellis from losing it entirely. The deadly pattern of denial and exhaustion constantly threatened to overwhelm him, but the conman always seemed to interrupt just in time with some scathing insult or other.

“I don’t have a problem with leaving the car AND you behind. Okay, Ellis?”

“Jesus Christ, Ellis, like the goddamn zombies aren’t bad enough...”

“You’re screwed up in the head, you know that?”

“Do that again and I will bury you alive.”

“I hate you, Ellis.”

Perversely, he began to welcome the barbed comments. They helped snap him back to reality when his beleaguered system began to switch to autopilot. He grew attached to his grouchy companion, though he didn’t realize it himself; but the stronger the attraction, the worse Nick’s abuse made him feel. All the same, the team kept going, kept killing, kept walking. And Ellis kept torturing himself to keep the nightmares at bay.

His psychological defenses worked right up to the Alabama border. The wide streets and neat brick buildings of Columbus didn’t seem so bad at first, even a little cleaner than most cities they’d passed through, but it got nasty soon enough. A jockey landed on Coach, forcing him to stumble into a parked car and trip the alarm before Rochelle could kill it.

“Goddamn, it’s gettin’ good!” Nick cursed above the wail and the roar. They were stuck in the middle of the street with no chance to run when the horde descended.

They tried to fight their way to a building, a sidestreet, anything that would give them something solid at their backs. Ellis worked his shotgun like a robot: _POWchk-chk, POW_ over and over in mindless slaughter until he felt a slimy noose wrap around his neck. He saw Nick swing to shoot the smoker, heard him yelling _ELLIS!_ before a swarm of infected nearly ripped the rifle from his hands.

The tongue constricted. Ellis choked and gagged and staggered backwards. Suddenly there was a painful jerk, and his friends were getting farther away with alarming speed even though he could see Rochelle break free and start sprinting towards him. Her bullets left smoke trails in the air, and the other men gave her cover and she was gaining-

Then something exploded inside his skull, and the silence finally caught him.

* * *

The kid bothered him. It wasn’t the annoying-as-fuck accent or incredible stupidity, although either was already more than enough to piss him off. There was something else that he couldn’t put a finger on and wasn’t sure he wanted to. Something familiar enough to be scary, but alien enough to defy description. Ellis just... _bothered_ him.

Considering the circumstances, however, Nick’s usual methods of making people go away were useless. He couldn’t exactly leave the idiot penniless in Detroit, or threaten violence worse than what surrounded them already. He had to settle for a tongue lashing, which _never_ managed to shut Ellis the hell up but made Nick feel a little better. Most of his frustration he had to take out on the infected.

Eventually he kept up his antagonism just for show. It provided some semblance of natural order amidst the chaos, showing he was the alpha male in the equation. But his heart wasn’t in it anymore. Good acting ensured the others couldn’t tell, but little by little Nick’s spirit withered. He was tired, dog-tired, sick of running and lying and pretending to be just fine. Their little feud became nothing more than a formality, a grand duel fought with plastic cocktail swords.

And they weren’t even out of Georgia yet.

Without realizing it, Nick came to depend on Ellis as an anchor. When everything else had gone to hell, that impossible redneck was still smiling. A strained smile, for sure, but it was more than the others could manage. That stupid little _something_ latched on and kept the conman from losing himself, again, like the father of a murdered child. He could still think and feel, still had some hope, could still be a sarcastic jackass if he wanted to. His eyes did not go dead.

They were almost in Alabama when it happened. From seemingly nowhere, one of those stupid jack-off jockeys landed on Coach, who was too slow to dodge when they heard the unhinged laughter. Rochelle was closest, and killed the sonofabitch, but too late to keep its mount from setting off a car alarm. High-pitched wailing echoed off the red brick buildings, drawing an aggressive roar in response.

“Shit...” Coach panted. They formed up back-to-back as the first wave of infected began to pour down the street.

“Goddamn, it’s gettin’ good!” Nick growled, downing three zombies.

On one side Ellis’ shotgun turned flesh into confetti, and on the other Coach efficiently cleared the area with his AK-47. Nick’s reliable desert rifle did its job as always. It seemed like they’d finish off the horde easily, when with a _shhlick_ and a strangled cry his left side was suddenly undefended. He turned to cover his ass and saw the mechanic struggling with an impossibly long tongue wrapped tight around his neck.

“ _ELLIS!_ ” Nick tried to fire over his head at the spot where the tongue disappeared, but more infected started to kick and grab and threatened to overwhelm him. He had to beat them off, yelling to the others: “Smoker’s got Ellis!” Rochelle, the fastest, dodged the blows of their attackers and ran to help, shooting desperately at an invisible target. Coach pressed up against Nick’s right side, and together they kept the seething mass of zombies off her back. Enemies kept coming and dying by the dozens, until finally the men could retreat to where Rochelle knelt over their fallen comrade. Nick killed the last, hearing the conversation behind him with numb ears.

“He’s got a concussion. I don’t know how he’s not dead.”

“We gotta get someplace safe. I’ll carry him, you grab his gun. Nick, take this, or he’ll be impossible when he wakes up.” Coach thrust Ellis’ cap into the conman’s hands. Its white mesh was stained with red where the kid’s head had hit the wall.

Nick stared at the mechanic. He looked naked without the hat, brown curls clumping and soggy with blood. Purple bruises were starting to form around his neck, and his breath was erratic. He twitched and moaned when Coach hefted him onto his back. Following them, the conman noticed a weird feeling he couldn’t shake. It was uncomfortable, and hot in his chest when the rest of him was so cold. Rochelle’s curvaceous ass, usually more than enough to make him feel like a man, didn’t have any appeal. She walked at the head of the group, eyes questing for beautiful orange graffiti, but Nick hadn’t got the energy to leer from behind. His gaze kept returning to the pathetic, unconscious form that muttered “No... no, Keith, don’t...” and struggled against Coach’s secure grip.

* * *

“Hey, man, you okay? You ain’t lookin’ so good.”

“Fine, I’m jus’ fine. Lil’ sore still.”

“Tolja it was a dumb idea.”

“Shut up, it was awesome.”

Keith punched him in the shoulder. He was fourteen and they’d just been caught screwing around Whispering Oaks in the middle of the night. Ellis had escaped security through the generator room unscathed. Keith hadn’t. His jeans were torn, his arms were scraped, and he had a real shiner of a black eye...

But Ellis watched in horror as the color suddenly drained from his friend’s face. There was blood in his hair and the purple bruise was actually a bullet hole, growing deeper and gorier by the second. He dropped the pistol like hot coals, gagged on the overwhelming stench, and turned to run-

 ...

The rain beat incessantly on his head. He was twenty-one, shitfaced on bourbon and stark naked in the river. Keith dropped his sodden boxers on the shore and dove in, too. When he surfaced Ellis sent a huge wave straight into his face. Laughing and sputtering, half-drowned and too drunk to care, they splashed each other mercilessly until a searing bolt of lightning struck the church. It froze the rain in place for a split second and deafened the young men with its thunder.

When the flash spots faded from his eyes Ellis was alone. He looked around wildly, calling for Keith and getting no answer. The rain-rhythm pounded in his mind.

There, a pale spot bobbing in the river. The lazy current carried Keith’s body into view, leaving a wide red slick that calmed the choppy surface.

 ...

Sunlight danced in Keith’s auburn hair and slid down his melting rocky road ice cream. Ellis was ten and the air was hot. They sat in the shade of a tree on River Street and watched the boats pass under the bridge.

“Well I figure, if’n we c’n get us some gas, that’ll make it easier.”

“Duh. But I ain’t gonna filch it for ya, ‘cuz Bill’s gonna show me how ta fix a radiator nex’ week an’ I ain’t gonna make ‘im change his mind ‘bout teachin’ me.”

“Pffft. Ellis, yer so chicken sometimes. An’ where’s Dave? Didn’t ya say he’d meet us here?” Keith looked around for their third musketeer, chocolate smeared all over his mouth. When he turned back to Ellis, his face was drenched in blood.

... 

Perverted, corrupted memories played themselves out in his mind, for how long was impossible to tell.

It was summer, and Keith’s kiss ripped the flesh from his girlfriend’s face.

Ellis was seven, and Keith’s eyeball was the prize inside his Easter egg.

Last Christmas, they turned their brand-new shotguns on themselves.

And then came the worst – the one that wasn’t a nightmare. The one that was real.

* * *

“Boy must be havin’ some kinda nightmares,” Coach commented, adjusting his rider’s flailing arms. Rochelle looked back with a pained expression.

“Poor thing might have a fever. Anybody got some Tylenol, aspirin maybe?”

Nick shook off his stupor in time to see a ransacked Walgreens a block away. “This way. Might be something useful left.”

He and Rochelle eliminated the store’s infected customers and managed to find several bottles of ibuprofen in the pharmacy area.

“Shame there’s nothing stronger. I could go for some Vicodin right now,” he quipped in an effort to lighten the mood. It failed spectacularly.

On the bright side, they could now see a thrice-blessed steel door a few streets down – and none too soon. Ellis was getting more violent, scratching Coach’s head and starting to yell. They couldn’t get him to take any pills; he’d just knock them away. The other three practically ran to the safehouse before his increasingly loud cries of “NO!” drew any unwanted attention.

When the sweet, sweet sound of iron clanging shut resonated in the air, they found themselves on the ground floor of an office building. It had been overturned and modified into a safe haven against the apocalypse: the stairs were blocked, the elevator was broken, piles of ammunition and first-aid kits were scattered everywhere. There were several rooms, and each had one or two grimy mattresses lying on the floor. Most incredibly, the vending machine still had food left in it.

Without delay Coach lowered his burden onto a mattress. Ellis immediately started kicking and punching, talking loudly to himself.

“Keith, look out! Dammit I _told_ you this was a bad idea... NO! No, don’t do it, man, don’t... I won’t, I ain’t gonna, Keith, why didn’t’chu lissen t’me? What’s wrong with yer face? No! No...”

The other three looked at each other: Coach concerned, Nick deadpan, Rochelle outright upset.

She winced as Ellis punched the ground. “If he was like that with the pills, I am _not_ going to try bandaging his head. Not unless he stays still.”

“Let’s see if he stops on his own. If he’s still like this in an hour...” Coach trailed off. The others knew what he meant.

* * *

Keith and Ellis hid in the garage’s break room. Neither smiled. The weak multicolor glow of the vending machine barely did anything to relieve the darkness.

Ellis’ sweaty palms made the pistol grip slick. The noise from outside, the screaming and the killing they’d been powerless to prevent, had faded to nothing. It was silent, the kind of silence that swallowed even the small sounds of their terror, stole their breath and suffocated them. It was unbearable.

“Let’s get outta here.”

Keith’s whisper was hoarse, almost a growl. He moved to unblock the door, and dropped his crowbar. It clanged to the ground so loudly that Ellis’ heart jerked into panicked double-time.

“Jesus, man, be quiet! They could be waitin’ for us out there.”

“I don’t care, I don’t give a shit, I jus’ gotta get out... Aaauunnnggghh...” He fell against the barricade, groaning, doubled over in pain.

“Keith. Keith! Shit...” Ellis knelt by him, reaching out to lift his face. Sweat oozed from his skin, which had grown hot with fever in the space of a few minutes. “Shit, no, no, yer okay, ya gotta be okay, you ain’t one’a them...”

“El,” croaked Keith. “I’m sorry, brother. I’m sorry...”

“Shut up, don’t say nothin'. Yer fine, ain’t no dumbass cold’s gonna take ya down---”

“Ellis. Please. Do it.” His face was twisted in pain, eyes becoming yellow. He shuddered and convulsed. “ _DO_ _IT!_ ”

The plea was an inhuman shriek, and Ellis felt claws seize the front of his shirt. They pierced his skin, left deep gouges, but he didn’t feel a thing.

“Oh god... oh god, Keith...” His shaking hand raised the pistol of its own accord. “I’m sorry!”

The blood was hot on Ellis’ face, burned like acid on his hands. The bag of meat that used to be his best friend slumped to the floor, staring at nothing, the hole in its head more painful to the killer than the corpse.

He couldn’t scream, couldn’t give voice to the tears that mingled with the blood on his cheek. The pistol clattered to the ground.

Ellis joined the silence, embraced his brother for the last time, and wept until he fell asleep on Keith’s slowly cooling chest.

* * *

Rochelle couldn’t bear to listen to Ellis’ fevered ranting, and went to clean her M16 as far from him as possible. Coach went to work on the vending machine to get dinner out of it, and as it happened that task also required him to be several rooms away. At first Nick was just too tired to move, but the longer he sat by the mechanic, the less he wanted to leave. The disjointed raving was starting to make some sense.

Ellis and Keith, best of friends, museum-quality specimens of redneck idiots. They did lots of stupid stuff, but always got out of it okay, more or less. But in the dreams Nick was overhearing, things were going wrong – even worse than third-degree-burns kind of wrong. He’d never heard that twisting pain in the kid’s voice before, but it was disturbingly, hypnotically familiar.

Nick listened for a long while, turning the hat over in his hands and trying to put a name to the sensation. Under the accent and unconscious mutters, the voice sounded like somebody he knew. It sounded like _him_ , years ago, when he still cared about other people... Specifically one other person...

“He ain’t stopped. We gotta try t’give him these, t’help the fever.” Coach jolted him from his meditations and displayed a handful of tablets. “Hold him.”

“No... god, don’t, don’t make me... we didn’t drown...”

Nick saw the determination in the older man’s eyes, and sat at the head of the mattress without a word of complaint. Ellis was still punching at nothing, and his contorted face was flushed. To anyone else, it would have been painful to watch. The conman caught his flailing wrists, firmly drawing them apart so Coach could administer the medicine.

“You ain’t one’a them... God, brother, I’m sorry...”

It was getting harder to hold on. “C’mon, he’s stronger than me,” Nick grunted, fighting to keep the mechanic’s arms pinned.

“No... no, no, no...!”

Coach reached out, but never delivered. Ellis ripped from Nick’s grasp, screaming, a chilling shriek that tore open his eyes for one bloody instant.

“ _Keith!_ ”

He convulsed, touched Nick’s thigh, and latched on. The other men stared in shock as Ellis sobbed, releasing a wild sorrow that neither had known their young companion was even capable of possessing. His back heaved, still stained with blood from his head wound. It had clotted in his hair, making it tacky to Nick’s bewildered touch.

“What the _fuck_ is going on?” Rochelle appeared in the door, rifle raised, expecting to see... She wasn’t sure what she expected, but it certainly wasn’t this. Coach and Nick lifted their eyes to her with identical expressions of confusion.

“I, uh... I don’t rightly know myself. But you can put away the gun, baby girl. Ain’t nobody here but us chickens.”

“Unless Overalls is turning into the first-ever male witch, we’re fine. But I can’t get him off me.” Nick uselessly tried to move his leg, and only earned himself a tighter grip.

Rochelle lowered her weapon. “That was _him_ screaming? Sweet Jesus. I don’t think I’ll sleep for a week.”

“Tell me about it,” Nick sighed. “My ear’s still ringing. Can’t get him to take his meds, either. I think he’s too interested in drowning me right now.”

Ellis’ sobbing went uninterrupted for a moment as all three watched him, at a loss for what to do. Coach was the first to turn away.

“We ain’t goin’ anyplace for a while. I’m takin’ a nap.”

“Can’t hurt to try. Good luck, there, Nick.” Rochelle followed Coach out of the room.

“What, you’re just gonna leave me here with the crybaby? Bastards!” Nick called after them, but his heart wasn’t in it. He looked down at Ellis, spilling tears all over his – face it, it wasn’t white anymore – suit. Strange how somebody could look so young and so old at the same time. From what Nick could see of his face, Ellis seemed both like a child whose mother had died and an old veteran who had just become the last surviving member of his squadron. Loss was written in every crease of his forehead. It didn’t take a mind reader to see that.

As Nick carefully maneuvered to lean against the wall, he tried to understand how Ellis had hidden the pain this long. A grief that deep was hard to mask from regular people, never mind ones like Nick who read faces for a living. He supposed that the apocalypse had dulled his senses, but even so... Maybe he’d written it off as part of the kid’s reaction to it all, because seriously, nobody can be _that_ happy in this kind of situation. Not _all_ the time. So he’d chalked any funny behavior up to your regular everyday survivor’s psychosis. That made sense.

Having come to this conclusion, Nick’s brain tried to move on to another bothersome problem: his recent lack of objectivity. The thought made him flinch, and he tried to change the subject, but it kept coming back to Ellis and the stupid fucking... _whatever_ it was. That twitch in his stomach, what was that all about? Why, goddammit, did Ellis _bother_ him so much more than he would have expected? And why wasn’t he prying the idiot’s hands off this goddamn minute?

It was just before dusk when his aggravatingly incisive subconscious was interrupted by the very cause of its consternation.

“I didn’t wanna do it. But we promised each other, y’know? Like in th’ movies, they always say, ‘if I get bit, I want'chu t’kill me?’ Well that’s what we did. F’r a joke. Only it weren’t a joke after all...”

Ellis, still clinging to Nick’s leg like a baby monkey, wasn’t actually awake. But he was talking, and a hell of a lot clearer than before. He almost sounded normal. Nick smirked – even asleep, the kid wouldn’t shut up.

“We didn’t have time. We were workin’ at the shop when we heard it, people screamin’, an’ shit went ta hell so fast... I dunno how but I got the ‘mergency pistol from under the register, y’know, in case’a robbers n’ shit? An’ we locked ourselves inta the break room... An’ we were stuck. For hours. ‘Til, like, the middle of the night. Only then Keith, he... he started changin’. I didn’t know, then, but he was gonna be a hunter. I still got scars from his claws. But he told me, ‘fore he was gone, he told me...” Ellis’ body started to shake again. “I had ta do it, I promised, and he’d’a killed me... Fuck... Nick, I’m sorry, for ev’rything. I... I can understand if ya can’t forgive me. ‘Cause I shot him. I shot Keith. I’m sorry.”

Stunned into silence, Nick had no idea what to do. The unconscious young man curled up in his lap kept talking, asked again for his forgiveness, apologized for... something, it didn’t matter what, because Ellis confessed to more than just killing his best friend. He admired the witty jackass in the white suit. He wanted to earn respect and admiration in return. But he didn’t know how, and he wasn’t good enough anyway, because of what he’d done...

Nick almost laughed out loud at the idea. Ellis had acted in self-defense; Nick had done murder in cold blood and not regretted it later. Not good enough? Ridiculous. But maybe if he focused on that silly bit, he could avoid thinking about the day four years ago when he’d as good as killed his...

Shit. Too late.

“Coach! Ro! I think he’s waking up!” Hold it together, just a minute, come on...

* * *

“Hey, kid. Overalls. _Ellis._ ”

He woke to throbbing pain and a familiar voice. Something was soft, warm, and moving under him.

“If you’re awake, can I have my leg back now? I gotta take a leak... Ouch! Dammit, Rochelle, don’t break my fucking arm...”

He opened his eyes and immediately wished he hadn’t. The weak light of an oil lantern stabbed viciously at him, impossibly bright and agonizingly direct. He flinched and it was withdrawn. The red haze over everything lifted slightly, enough that he could recognize Coach and Rochelle kneeling in front of him. He seemed to be on a couch, or mattress, or something.

“Ugh, I got a misery in my _bones_...” Where was Nick? He was talking a second ago...

“It’s a miracle you ain’t dead, son.”

“Yeah, your skull’s even thicker than I thought. _Ow_ , cut that out!” There he was again. Above?

Ellis tried to turn and found himself curled into a tight knot. He rolled over and ran face-first into a warm, squishy wall. He looked straight up instead. Ah, that’s where Nick was. Awfully close...

Sluggishly his brain finished analyzing his surroundings, and came to the conclusion that slightly disgusted shock was an appropriate response at this time. Unfortunately his body didn’t feel like reacting that way, and he couldn’t manage to sit up before exquisite pain lanced its way down his spine. He settled for lying flat on his back using Nick’s thigh as a pillow, and straightened his cramped limbs.

“What the hell happened? Why’m I... uh...”

“Humping my leg like a dog? Gotcha!” Nick intercepted Rochelle’s fist before it could land another stinging rebuke, and shoved her away. She glowered at him.

“You remember the smoker, sweetie? He dragged you headfirst into a brick wall. You’re lucky it didn’t break your neck.”

“By the time we got there you were out cold. Had t’carry you ‘til we found a safe house. An’ here we are.”

“It must have been rough. You were muttering the whole time, and fighting the air. Coach couldn’t get close to give you some painkillers until Nick helped hold you down...”

“Overalls, you scream like a girl. And then you fucking grabbed my leg and started _crying_ all over it. For more than a goddamn hour. Wouldn’t let go after that, either. I’ve been stuck here waiting for you to wake up so I can go take a goddamn _piss_.”

“Sorry.” Ellis carefully scooched off of Nick’s leg, allowing the conman to leave with great expediency. “How long’ve I been out?”

Coach and Rochelle looked at each other. “Five, six hours? Somethin’ like that,” the older man said. “We still ain’t got any pills in ya. Want some now?”

Ellis thought better of nodding vigorously, and whispered instead. “Yes, please.”

He fell asleep again before they took effect, and this time did not dream.

* * *

 

Nick left like an arrow from a bow, making for the door as fast as he could without actually running. It wasn’t the need to relieve himself that lent him speed, though he did feel much better after watering a hapless potted plant. The air in that room was more suffocating than any smoke-filled dive bar he’d ever been in, and it was a sign of how worn-out he was that he hadn’t been able to deal with it properly.

Zipping his fly, he wandered through the gloom to the place Rochelle had gone earlier and occupied a corner. With his arms around his knees and head tilted back, he could see some of the broad collection of wall-writing that decorated every safe-house in the plague zone. Some scrawls were crude; most were simply the marks of refugees who didn’t want to be forgotten. But a few stood out against the concrete as stark memorials to the fallen. Nick stared vaguely at an unusually lovely tribute to someone named... Rebecca. What a goddamn coincidence.

He closed his eyes, but the flowing green handwriting was stuck in his visual cortex, mocking him. A less disciplined man would have cried. Nick didn’t think he had any tears left to spill.

When Coach and Rochelle came back, he’d gotten control of himself. They collapsed with heavy sighs, knowing better than to approach their companion when he was brooding. This time, though, he needed information.

“How is he?” His voice was gravelly.

“Sleeping. Quietly, thank God.” Rochelle sounded like she could use a nap, too.

“We can’t go any farther ‘til Ellis is walkin’ by himself. I ain’t carryin’ him anymore.”

“Not to mention, it’s dark out,” she yawned. “Did you get that vending machine open?”

“Sure did. Here. Nick, y’want somethin’?”

The conman opened his eyes to see Coach holding out a bag of chips like a peace offering.

“Thanks.” Nick moved closer to his comrades and took the food. The three of them ate in silence, spiritually drained as well as physically exhausted. Coach tidied up the wrappers afterwards, though there wasn’t really any point to the exercise. It was obvious by now that the four of them were the very last to make it out alive, and there was no one else left to be offended by a bit of trash.

Rochelle got comfortable on the floor. Before Nick could do the same, though, she cleared her throat and caught his eyes. Coach saw the meaning in the look and said nothing. He knew what she was up to, and had been up to for a while now. God forbid he get in the way.

Nick had hoped to avoid this. “Fine,” he growled, feeling sick. Damn that woman and her uncanny ability to see right through him. That was supposed to be _his_ schtick.

Without the lantern, it was nigh-impossible to see. Full dark in a post-apocalyptic world really was _full_ , a blackness so complete that he couldn’t tell at first if his eyes were open or shut. Eventually he managed to find his way to the room where Ellis slept. Starlight filtered weakly through the bars on the door, just barely enough to distinguish shapes in shades of grey. The white hat that lay discarded on the mattress picked up the most, glowing faintly next to a dark, amorphous lump. Nick slipped out of his shoes and silently padded across the floor towards it.

He stood looking down at the young man’s sleeping form long enough to begin to see detail again: high, smooth cheekbones; chiseled jaw with just a hint of shadow; toned arm muscles at rest. Ellis was beautiful. It didn’t feel wrong to think that. It was just a fact. The strange thing was that it had taken until now to see it.

Well, it had taken until now to discover that the two of them shared a loss, and a guilt. It had taken this long to be able to face it again. It had taken four years to thaw the deep-freeze around Nick’s heart – was it such a bad thing that this impossible, aggravating, off-putting mechanic was the one who’d finished the job?

Nick gently let himself down to the mattress, but not quite gently enough. Ellis shot bolt upright, and made a noise like he wished he hadn’t. He was probably still in pain.

“Shh. Take it easy, it’s just me.” Nick slid closer, to be in the spot where Ellis would lie back down. Being a human pillow wasn’t so bad, come to think of it.

* * *

Movement woke Ellis in the middle of the night. His defensive reflex made him wince and groan.

“Shh. Take it easy, it’s just me.”

“Nick?”

“Go back to sleep.”

Ellis relaxed and lay down, but was surprised to feel that soft, warm wall against his face again – surprised enough to sit right back up.

“Oh come on, you thought I was comfy enough earlier,” Nick quipped, beginning to wonder if he’d made the right choice.

“You off yer nut? The hell're ya doin’ here?”

“Does it matter?”

“Uh, yeah, ‘cause it’s kinda freakin’ me out.”

Nick sighed. Ellis wasn’t the only one who was a little freaked out at this point, but it was too late to start having second thoughts.

“They didn’t tell you what you were saying, did they? When you were knocked out?”

Ellis’ comfort level was dropping rapidly. “No.”

Of course not. Nick quelled his high-school butterflies, hedged a select few of his bets, and put the rest of his cards on the table.

“Jeez,” he sighed, lying back. “Well, for a while you wouldn’t shut up about that Keith idiot. But not like you usually don’t shut up. You kept saying ‘no’ like something terrible was happening. And then when you screamed, you screamed his name, and said ‘don’t go’ and ‘I’m sorry’. Over and over. That’s when you decided my leg was a teddy bear.” Nick’s grimace was almost audible.

“Sorry ‘bout that,” muttered the embarrassed mechanic, fighting the sorrow that came with the memory.

“Shut up, I’m not done. You cried a _lot._ It was freaky how much you sounded like a goddamn witch. But when you stopped... Shit. I didn’t know...” Ellis had never heard him sound ashamed before; ashamed and... hopeful? “You were practically lucid. You told me plain as day how you had to kill him. And... you asked _me_ to forgive you. Not Coach, not Ro. Me.” Nick stopped. He didn’t want to spill everything at once. The rest could wait.

Ellis had no idea why he felt heat rising in his face. He stared at the black place Nick’s voice was coming from, mortified and confused. It’d be so easy to pretend it never happened.... “Why’re ya tellin’ me this?”

 It was an excellent question, actually, and Nick’s heart started beating loud enough to wake the dead. Why? Because you’re the first person I’ve given a damn about in four years? Because you deserve better than how I’ve been treating you? Because I want us to be closer than we are now, in a way I’m not sure of myself?

“Hell if I know.”

“Well.. uh...” Ellis swallowed. “I’m real sorry ya had ta hear all that.”

“I’m not,” Nick said emphatically, and meant it. “I get you a lot better now. We’re more alike than I thought.”

Ellis didn’t answer. Not surprising, considering what-all had happened that day. They were both emotionally wrecked, and him with a concussion on top of it? Too much to think about for one night. He slowly lowered his throbbing skull to the mattress, hoping he’d be able to sleep after all this.

Nick felt movement, and saw the younger man begin to curl up again. Without thinking, he reached out. He needed confirmation, contact, anything to reassure him that this conversation wouldn’t be forgotten in the morning. There was still more to say.

“Over here.” There was the sound of shifting cloth, and a calloused hand gently brought Ellis’ head down to Nick’s chest. He resisted at first, still not sure what to make of the conman’s weird mood; but he was in no shape to fight, and soon gave up.

Heartbeats, strong and slow, lulled him into a sleep free of nightmares.


	2. Chapter 2

Twin rhythms woke him as the pre-dawn sky turned grey: one, a painful pounding in his head; the other, Nick's soothing heartbeat.

... _Nick_?

Ellis felt warmth at his back, and could see a white-sleeved arm draped over his waist. He was lying on his side, with the still-unconscious conman curled around him like a lover. It was surprisingly comfortable, and even though he was a little creeped out Ellis was reluctant to stop cuddling. Tender moments were awfully rare these days, and his inner hopeless romantic missed them. Nevertheless, he felt physically disgusting, and gingerly wriggled out of Nick's embrace so he could clean up. The gambler shifted slightly, looking vulnerable and alone on the grimy mattress. You could almost feel sorry for him.

Ever so gently, Ellis opened the safehouse door to get some fresh air. He knew it was stupid to go outside, but it was dark and awkward in there - he needed to clear his head. And there were no zombies on this street, thank god. Being unconscious for almost a whole day had left his muscles feeling weak and cramped, but a few easy push-ups helped a lot. He touched his toes, flexed his joints in every direction, and took several deep breaths of not-actually-so-fresh air before returning to camp. His head was feeling a little better, too, but he could tell he had a nice big lump that would hurt like hell if he whacked it again.

Re-entering the safehouse was not as silent an operation as leaving had been. Putting the bar back in place involved a small _clang_ , which startled Nick awake. Ellis winced as the northerner jerked upright, reaching for a gun.

“Sorry 'bout that. Just me.”

“Oh. ...okay.” Nick had been having some particularly weird dreams, and wasn't quite up to speed with reality yet. Before the noise, he'd been trying to save his daughter from the house fire the Boss had set... and Ellis had shown up with the fire engine and a giraffe. He rubbed his eyes and dragged his hands down his face. Nope, no giraffes in this room.

They were silent for a moment, neither willing to be first to mention the night before. Ellis had found his gun, where Rochelle had dropped it yesterday, and was cleaning it just a little too painstakingly. He wanted to talk about what he'd done, now that Nick knew. He didn't want to go on hiding from himself. But he still wasn't sure if the older man would be okay with it – he wasn't exactly a touchy-feely sort of guy, and what he'd said last night still didn't make any sense. How were the two of them alike?

Nick himself knew that Ellis would listen to what he had to say, but he wasn't sure anymore if he wanted to say it. The one superstitious bone in his body claimed that the kid's presence in his dream meant that he was _supposed_ to help; but Nick had spent four years burying that story deep, and he wanted some strong liquor before showing it the light of day. He sat and half-focused on Ellis' hands, working sure and precise over the shotgun's innermost parts.

“Aw, fuck,” the mechanic muttered to himself, inspecting a twisted piece of metal that glinted in the rising sunlight. Nick snapped himself out of it.

“What's wrong?”

“Sear's broken. This thing's useless.”

“Damn. That sucks.”

“No shit, all I got now's a pistol. Hey, when we get movin', lemme know if ya spot anythin' I can fuck up zombies with, okay?”

“Yeah, sure. Whatever.” Nick resumed arguing with himself.

Frustrated, Ellis threw the offending fragment at the wall, then braced himself against the table. His head still hurt. And he was doing it again, bottling things up in a way that was sure to drive him nuts. Grimacing, he spoke to the floor.

“Lissen, about last night...”

Nick looked up again, face blank, mind racing. “What about it?”

“Well, now ya know why I'm always talkin' 'bout Keith. I guess I musta wanted t'say sorry, 'cuz you get way more pissed off about it than Coach n’ Rochelle do.” Ellis pushed off from the table and looked squarely at Nick, who got a sinking feeling. “But I got no idea what'chu meant when ya said we're alike. Seems t'me we're about as diff'rent from each other as... as Ro is from a spitter.” He made a face, unsatisfied with the analogy.

Nick smirked – the kid was right – but sobered almost immediately. His warring emotions were disorienting and strange, sensations he hadn't felt since... Since taking his name four years ago. Did that mean something? Nicolas Fields was completely different from the man he'd left behind; maybe the end of the world was changing his identity yet again. Nicolas Fields hated this situation, but maybe Nick – just plain Nick, born of the apocalypse – welcomed it.

_What the hell._

“It's a long story. And you might not want to hear it.”

A slow smile crept across Ellis' face, brightening the room. He crossed back over to the mattress where Nick still sat, and plunked himself down right next to him.

“After what-all I been tellin' you? I can be a damn good listener if ya need one.” There was a warm, fuzzy feeling in the mechanic's chest; finally, his grouchy teammate was getting less... well, grouchy. Less prickly. Almost human.

For the first time, Nick acknowledged the sparkle in the young man's eyes: the good-natured, supporting, reassuring glow that had inexplicably annoyed him for so long. He welcomed it now, the open face that promised not to judge. Ellis was the sort of guy who'd stick to his friends like glue, loyal to the end, no matter what. He was probably the only person in the world who would still have Nick's back after hearing what he had to say.

Drawing a bright barrier in his mind, Nick separated himself from his past, and told the story like it had happened to someone else – because, really, it had.

* * *

 

Rochelle was wandering back to the door to check on the boys when she heard voices. She stopped and stood just out of sight in the next room, eyes wide, listening. A cold fear seized her gut as she heard Nick admit what he'd done, and without having heard him explain the context to Ellis she crept back to Coach. He looked up at her with surprise and concern.

“You look like you've seen a ghost. Are they okay?”

She sank back to the ground, slowly shaking her head and forcing herself to breathe evenly.

“Ellis is fine. Nick's a murderer.”

Coach raised an eyebrow. “Ain't we all?”

“No. No, we're not. Not like that. They were talking, and he said he worked for the mafia, once, and then he killed his boss. Blew up the building. He said it so... he was so _cold_ , Coach! Satisfied. _Proud_ of it! And we _trust_ him?” She shuddered and hugged her knees to her chest.

“That's a heavy charge,” Coach sighed, leaning back against the wall. “I do remember, one time, he said he wasn't legally allowed t’ have a gun. Thought he was jokin'. He's serious?”

“Dead serious. God knows why he was telling Ellis. Maybe sending him there last night worked, and they won't be constantly arguing anymore, but...” She met Coach's eyes, pleading. “I'd rather we stick together. You and me.”

He ran a hand across his head, as though he still had hair to mess up, and looked towards the door.

“Sure thing, but I think you might be jumpin' the gun on this. There's _always_ more to a story like that. An' it don't matter what he's done before, 'cuz right now all we got is us. He ain't done us wrong yet, an' it's gonna stay that way so long's the four of us're stuck out here.” He heaved himself off the floor, swiping some water from the gutted vending machine and handing one bottle to Rochelle.

She accepted it gratefully, swilled some around in her mouth, and swallowed it. They couldn't afford to waste clean water by spitting it out, no matter how long it had been since they'd brushed their teeth. _God, it's been an awful long time,_ she thought, grimacing at her own morning breath. The frightened flutters in her otherwise empty stomach didn't help, but as she considered Coach's words they calmed somewhat. _He's right that there's got to be more to this. Maybe I've read one too many true-crime novels... But I'll be keeping an eye on Nick. Just in case._

* * *

“So the... what'dja call 'em, the pay-tree-ark-ah?”

“ _Patriarca_. Just call them the Family.”

“Fine, the Family, they burned yer _house_ down? Just so's you'd _focus_?”

“More or less.”

“With yer _daughter_ inside?!”

“And the babysitter.”

“Well... shit.”

“Thinking back, I wish they'd got my ex-wife instead.”

“Now, that's just cold.”

“Her I don't give a damn about. It's Rebecca who keeps me up at night, sometimes.”

They sat in silence for a moment. Ellis was too busy processing the information to talk, unable to imagine this prickly bastard as a father. Nick was still conflicted about whether to continue, but the need to share with somebody – to know somebody _cared_ – was suddenly overwhelming. He grimaced.

“After that I was a different person. I was... Jesus, I was so angry, and so dead at the same time... You can't - I hope you _never_ know what it's like.”

“Well…” Ellis shifted, uncharacteristically subdued. “I was 'bout ten when mom said I was gonna have a brother. 'Cept she lost the baby. She... she was like that, like you said, for a long time after.”

Nick stared. Ellis' voice was quiet and sad, and he hung his head, as if in shame.

“Jeez, kid, I'd never have thought... Damn.” The conman cleared his throat awkwardly, not wanting this to become a confessional free-for-all. He was having a hard enough time dealing with his own problems. “Well... that. I was like that. She... Rebecca was the only other person on the fucking planet I gave a damn about, and they took her from me. Never mind that the bitch got almost full custody, I could still see her twice a month... And then she was gone. She was _three_ , Ellis! Three fucking years old!”

Ellis let Nick's anguish fill his ears, sat and listened as though the strained voice was the source of his life's energy. This story, these revelations... it was incredible. Not to mention the huge change that had come over the conman. That alone was enough to get Ellis' undivided attention.

Nick got a hold of himself, swallowed, and continued. Now that he'd begun, there was no stopping. “I kept working for them. There wasn't anything else I could do. _They_ were my 'Family,' goddammit. They sent me to collect protection money, to go knock off some guy or other, and I did everything they told me to. Nothing mattered. Until I got the chance to get even.” His voice went hard as flint. “It was maybe a year later. There was this big meeting, four of the _consiglieri_ with all their thugs and 'associates'... So I called in a couple of favors. Went completely overboard, but I was so mad... High explosives and a thermite fire, at the same time. And then I left.”

He looked up into blue eyes round with shock, and smirked. “Yeah, the whole block burned down, but I didn't stick around to watch. Changed my name and woke up in Vegas the next morning.”

When Ellis met the emerald gaze he couldn't look away. Those eyes were usually angry, or cold, and nothing more. Now, under the icy green of long-nursed fury, the young man also saw fear and pain. Instinctively he moved to offer a hug, but then remembered who he was dealing with. He hid the motion by rubbing the back of his neck.

“I dunno what t'say, man. I guess I wanna know... What was yer name? Before ya changed it? An' what's all that got t’ do with me, like, how's it make us any kinda similar?” He wasn't sure he really wanted to know, actually, what made him and an ex-hitman alike; but this conversation was the most open and honest they'd ever had, and on some weird level he was enjoying it. Besides, the man beside him obviously wasn't the man who'd blown up an entire city block for revenge. The man on the mattress was his teammate, and they'd saved each other's lives often enough that the mechanic's trust in him was unshaken.

Nick saw the movement before Ellis changed it, and desperately wished he could accept the comfort that was offered. Instead he broke eye contact and began to stare at the kid's shirt. The gaping maw of the tire was gruesomely fascinating.

“Crisci. I used to be Jack Crisci, then Nicolas Fields when I left Boston. Now I guess I'm just Nick.” He paused, trying to put together a sentence that didn't sound awkward, or sappy, or pathetic. It was difficult. “Last night, when you were talking in your sleep... Basically, you sounded like me. You were just as upset, just as angry with yourself as I was after Rebecca died. That's what I meant. We've both been through the worst shit a man can take. We just have different ways of living with it.” He grimaced. That still sounded too much like something a psychotherapist would say.

Ellis held his tongue. The analysis hit a nerve, and he wanted to deny being angry, but admitting it was strangely comforting. Without that small reassurance, he was sure the weight of the story would crush him. And annoyingly, there was also a bizarre little part of him that was ecstatic at being compared to Nick in any way whatsoever. He didn't trust himself to talk, afraid of looking like an idiot and ruining their suddenly meaningful friendship. He nodded silently instead.

When Ellis did not speak, Nick was thrown for a loop. He'd counted on the irrepressible youngster's constant chatter, since it meant he never had to broach a subject – the kid did it for him. Without his foil, the conman had to start cold; and what he wanted to say next was harder than anything else so far. He counted cards in his head for a moment, to calm down, then met Ellis' eyes again.

“There... um. There was more that you said, last night, and, uh...” _Quit that crap, you sound like a teenager!_ “I'm gonna say something a little weird, but bear with me, okay?”

Ellis nodded mutely again, wondering what could possibly count as “weird” after everything else they'd talked about.

Nick swallowed. “It's obvious that what you were apologizing for was real, it really happened. And you said you think you told me, not the others, because you knew you pissed me off the most.” He smirked as Ellis nodded once more, sheepishly this time. “Well, apparently you had another reason. I'm listening, if you want to tell me now... and if you don't know what I'm talking about, _I'll_ tell _you_.”

 _Oh, crap,_ thought the mechanic as he felt his face grow hot. “Did I... I didn't say nothin' about havin', like, a crush on ya, right? 'Cuz that's how me an' Lily got t'gether, in high school, she heard me talkin’ in my sleep...”

Nick was startled by the absurdity of the suggestion, and had to laugh. "No, no, not like that! All you said was that you wanted me to respect you, but you thought you were a horrible person for shooting Keith and not good enough to deserve the attention. I'm assuming those feelings are real, too, but there's a few things wrong with 'em." He raised a finger emphatically, making sure Ellis took his points to heart. "One. You acted in self-defense, and no matter how awful it was, it doesn't make you a murderer. Two." Another finger. "Even if it did, were you _listening_ to me just now? I've got so much blood on my hands I might as well be a fucking hunter. And three – what the hell makes you think my respect is worth a goddamn thing?"

Ellis couldn't bear to look Nick in the eye anymore. He hung his head again, mortified. How the _fuck_ was he supposed to answer that?

Coach and Rochelle saved him from having to try. They came in carrying the last of the food, and Ellis realized he was starving _;_ but as he started to get up, Nick grabbed his hand, keeping him on the mattress for one moment longer before they all moved on. Surprised, he looked back into green eyes that were softer than he'd ever seen them. The conman's face was almost gentle, and he whispered so the others wouldn't hear.

“Think about it.”


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This one has a really nasty scene involving a dead child. You may want to skip the end of the chapter if that content is disturbing to you.

Rochelle and Coach held the back of their formation so she could keep her eye on Nick. All day, during quiet times or in battle, she was hyper-sensitive to his position and what he was doing; not that he was doing anything out of the ordinary. He shot infected, muttered that his suit was dirty, and made scathing comments about whatever pissed him off. Nothing special, but Rochelle couldn't stop assigning sinister motives to everything he did. She was so preoccupied that when Coach spoke to her, she jumped.

“Damn, girl, pull yo'self t'gether. All I said was that Ellis is bein' awful quiet t'day, don’t'cha think?” He gestured at the mechanic with one hand and fired his pistol with the other, causing a listless zombie's head to explode. Rochelle was too used to gore by now to grimace at the blood that spattered her face, and simply wiped it off with a robotic motion.

“Huh. I hadn't noticed, but now that you mention it...” She reflected on the last few hours, and realized with surprise that she'd only heard “I ever tell ya 'bout the time me'n'Keith...” once since they'd left the safehouse that morning. That was a sure sign that something was very, very wrong - Ellis usually talked a blue streak, even when he was injured.

Rochelle frowned. Something wasn't right.

“On yo' left.”

Coach's warning made her turn and raise her rifle. A quick spread took out three infected that were getting a little too close, but the sharp retort drew another group from around the corner. Their growls, screams, and namelessly awful sounds attracted still more, causing the brief staccato of gunfire to quickly become a rhythm any speed-metal drummer would've been proud of.

“Ah, shit,” Rochelle heard Nick curse as the four of them automatically got into their defensive position. He was close enough behind her that she rubbed against his shoulders when either one of them leaned back. Although they'd formed up like this a million times before, today her skin went cold at the thought of being so close to him. She had trouble focusing on the fight, forgot to reload when she had the chance, and took several cuts as punishment for her distraction. Vicious, filthy claws tore at her skin and she bit back a cry, smashing the creature's bloody face with the butt of her rifle in retaliation.

When all the infected were finally dead she sat down, pulled some bandages from her medpack, and scolded herself for being an idiot. She struggled with adhesive trying to tape up her own arm, but as soon as she started muttering out loud a pair of large hands gently took over the task.

“Hold on, now, lemme patch ya up.”

Rochelle relaxed as Ellis tended her wounds. He'd gotten much better at it since they'd first fallen in together, and by now his hands felt quite nice. As he worked she eyed the bloody stain on the back of his hat, and noticed again how eerily quiet he was.

“Ellis?”

“That's m'name.”

“Honey, is everything okay? You've hardly said a word about crocodiles, or lawnmowers, or... or _anything_ since you got knocked out.”

Her medic glanced up and flashed a smile. “I'm fine, really. Just tired. An' my head still hurts a little, I guess.”

“Are you sure? Because...” She glanced over at Nick and Coach, searching for supplies a few meters away, and lowered her voice. “...I heard the two of you talking this morning, and I know what's up. I'm keeping an eye on him. Just know that you can talk to me if he's said or done anything to... to upset you, or hurt you, or...”

Ellis' hands, which had frozen at her last words, slowly finished tying off some gauze. When he straightened up his face was uncharacteristically grave.

“I think ya better tell me just what exactly ya heard.”

Rochelle didn't know what to make of his expression, but felt a protective urge sweep through her - she needed to keep this seemingly innocent boy safe from any and all threats posed by their companion. No question.

She swallowed, mouth suddenly dry. “He said... he took orders to kill, unless 'knock off' means something different these days... Then something about getting even, and blowing up an entire city block, and then he went to Vegas and changed his name. I just... I wanted to make sure you're all right, that he didn't...” She shied away from even suggesting the kind of thing she'd read about in mystery novels, and made a different point instead. “We don't even know his real _name_ , Ellis, how can we trust a... a _felon_?”

He stared levelly at her for a minute, somber cerulean eyes looking like they belonged to someone else. Rochelle felt an uncomfortable mix of worry, anger, and affection rise in her throat, afraid that what Nick had done might have stolen the exuberant joy right out of their boundlessly cheerful mechanic. Ellis' voice, when he spoke, did nothing to assuage her fears; it was low and sad, though his words were reassuring.

“I can tell ya it's fine. Ain't it obvious he's on our team?” With a raised finger he stopped her from answering the rhetorical question. “I can't say anythin' more 'bout this, not here, and a lot of it's... personal. Not my place ta go spreadin' around.” He pushed himself off his knees and held out his hand.

Rochelle took it and let the mechanic help her up. She smiled uncertainly, and was relieved to see a wide grin reappear on his youthful face.

“C'mon, we got zombies ta kill n' shit!”

Ellis took his place next to Nick, and Rochelle shook her head as she fell in step with Coach. She still wasn't too happy, but the boy wasn't shy about sharing his views on right and wrong. If he thought something was _really_ bad, he'd let everyone know it. So it couldn't be anything _too_ serious...

Coach nudged her shoulder. “You all right?”

“Yeah... Fine, just thinking… He says he's okay, but I'm still nervous.”

The older man made a noise halfway between humorless laugh and grouchy scoff. “Baby girl, if you don't calm yo'self down, somethin's gonna pounce on ya when ya not lookin'. Let it go 'til we find another safe house.”

She glanced ahead at the two other men walking in silence, and sighed.

“You're right. You're always right.”

* * *

 

Phenix City, Alabama didn't look all that different from Columbus, Georgia at first, but the significance of crossing the river wasn't lost on anyone. It had taken almost exactly a month to get this far, and the milestone renewed their flagging hope. It was progress, and their speed was increasing as they got better at fighting and running and finding supplies.

Coach smiled tiredly and cinched his belt tighter. Immersive combat training was doing wonders for his figure. Or maybe it was the consistent lack of food; three Twinkies and a bag of pretzels was not a big enough breakfast for someone his size, and by now it was way past lunchtime. His eye lit on the broken sign of a Sonic Drive-In, and his stomach growled. _I could be a one-man cheeseburger apocalypse right now,_ he thought wistfully, and tore his gaze back to the street before he drove himself crazy.

Nick walked a couple meters ahead of him, desert rifle turning in perfect synch with his field of vision. The dude definitely knew his way around a gun, but that didn’t mean anything. He could have a military background, or maybe he liked paintball. Sure he was a shady character, but he was also ornery and independent - wouldn't he have to accept authority to be a part of organized crime? Coach tried to imagine the grouchy man in a Mob-like scenario, but everything started to turn into _The Godfather_ in his head and that was the end of that train of thought.

Ellis wasn't the only one being quiet that afternoon. The number of common infected had dropped precipitously on the other side of the bridge, and they thankfully didn’t encounter any more hordes. Once or twice they heard a hunter or a charger and had to pick it off before it got too close, but wide-open concrete strip malls made it easy to spot danger. As they continued west, though, the area got more residential. Coach would have preferred to take the highway to Montgomery, but they'd already learned that the interstate was a dangerous place on foot. They'd have to keep south of I-85, and hope this neighborhood wasn't too rough.

Apparently, it used to be. There were signs that the Army had been established here, or at least passed through at some point: scraps of olive-drab clothing dangling from the shrubbery; tire marks from heavy vehicles tracked through muddy yards; artillery damage to the surrounding houses; and an overturned tank smack dab in the middle of Main Street. With its treads in the air and turret crushed they couldn't take it for a joyride, but they eagerly helped themselves to the equipment left scattered on the ground. Coach smiled at the windfall, and gingerly picked up a pipe bomb to clip to his belt.

“Grabbin’ fire in a bottle, baby,” Ellis gloated. He’d found some Molotovs on the porch of a nearby house, and grinned like a pyromaniac before sticking a couple in his huge pockets.

“Mmm, I like the feel of this.” Nick’s voice was low, almost seductive, as he pulled a wicked-looking sniper rifle from the rigid hands of a dead soldier.

Coach shuddered. _Okay, that’s a little creepy,_ he admitted to himself as Ellis claimed Nick’s old SCAR _._ Rochelle had taken more ammo, and paused reloading when she heard the assassin purr over his new gun. Coach caught her eye, beginning to understand why she'd been watching him like a hawk all day. _I gotta talk to him. We ain't got energy to waste on dangerous secrets, an' if Ro keeps freakin' out about it this shit’s gonna tear us apart._

They kept walking through neighborhoods that got increasingly respectable farther away from the urban center. The eerie lack of commons continued, but unfortunately specials seemed to be showing up much more often. Coach started tallying how many boomers he’d killed after the third or fourth fleshy explosion cut off unpleasant gurgling noises. He also noticed that whenever he raised his gun to shoot a smoker, there was an impressively loud _KRAKK_ and the thing would fall in a puff of green gas. _Every damn time_. He didn’t get to kill a single one.

He looked suspiciously at Nick and began a new count. Over the course of an hour, their mystery man took out five common infected, two boomers, one hunter, one spitter, and _nine smokers_ – he’d downed every one they’d seen, each time with a look of rage so fierce that Coach feared for his own life when he saw it.

 _Dude looks like he'd rather beat 'em t'death with their own freak-ass tongues..._ _What the hell is that about?_

* * *

 

By midafternoon Rochelle was hungry enough to keep a sharper lookout for food than for danger. After hours of walking they advanced into an area where the neatly lined-up houses appeared less affected by disaster than other neighborhoods had been, and she quietly called for a stop. The men responded, gathering around her in a loose huddle. She avoided looking Nick in the eye as she laid down the law.

“We've got to find something to eat. Let’s pair off to cover more ground, one team on each side of the street. _Don’t_ go exploring, just hit the kitchen and move on. Meet back here as soon as we’ve each done three, understand?”

“Yes, ma’am!” Ellis stood up straighter and saluted with a grin. “C’mon, I’m starvin’ too,” he said, tugging Nick’s arm before Rochelle had the chance to assign partners herself.

As he was led away, the conman forced eye contact with Rochelle and raised his eyebrow. She was staggered, as if from a physical impact, by the power in that ice-green glance. The hitman's stony face managed to subtly communicate whole volumes of information in a split second, and by the time he turned to follow Ellis, Rochelle's brain was totally overloaded. Suspicion, challenge, defensiveness, understanding, reassurance... How much was real, and how much was wishful thinking?

Coach snapped her out of it yet again, placing a hand on her shoulder. “Let’s go, girl, keep yo' mind on the mission. Thought'chu were hungry?”

She stopped staring after their teammates and focused on the houses they were preparing to ransack. Each was two stories plus attic, with a neat little porch and a chain-link fence separating each backyard from its neighbors. If not for the colors and varying states of disrepair, the street could have been designed with a cookie cutter.

They carefully ascended the front steps and entered the first house like a SWAT team: one on either side of the door, smash it open, immediately shoot anything behind it. This place was mostly clean, with only three infected standing around idly. She guessed they were the people who'd lived there Before. They died there, too.

Rochelle couldn't help letting her thoughts wander as they searched the kitchen. She was still on edge about Nick's confession, and his obvious affinity for the sniper rifle. But that look... _If I didn't know better, I'd say he was getting protective. Like Joey does when somebody bullies Sam._ Bringing up the memory of her nephews made her heart ache, but the parallel was there.

She tried to get Nick's emerald eyes out of her head, but couldn't. Maybe she was crazy, but she'd have sworn they'd shown something else on top of that strange possessiveness: a warmth, like he was trying to tell her not to worry...? She nearly laughed. No. That couldn't be possible. Nick was a lot of things, but warm sure as hell wasn't one of them. 

“We're stopping at the next safehouse. I don't care if it's dark yet or not,” Rochelle declared with her head in a cupboard. “I'd be a pathetic excuse for a journalist if I didn't get to the bottom of this. Whatever it is.”

Coach checked some high shelves, and sighed. “I'm startin' to agree with you, but we got to keep movin'. We ain't got time for this shit.”

“But Coach...”

He rounded on her with a can of soup in his hand. “Baby girl, listen. What I said before's still true. He depends on us, an’ we depend on him. We're all gonna suffer if our team falls apart, so put it outta yo' mind 'til we got the time to handle it proper!”

Rochelle fell silent, chastised. She scrounged around under the sink and came up with a bar of soap. Surviving the zombies would be pointless if they let themselves die from gangrene.

 _If only things were as simple as Coach says_... Life would be so much nicer. Less paranoid. Less painful. As things stood, she was having an extremely difficult time handling the memories brought back by the whole situation... and the distraction might just get her killed. _Just remember how many times Nick's saved your life,_ she thought, closing her eyes. _Coach knows teamwork, so if he says we're a team, better believe it._

“C'mon.” A big foot nudged her leg, and Rochelle emerged from the cabinet to see Coach, towering above her with his arms full of cans. “Next house.”

* * *

 

Nick didn't go for the kitchen. He'd seen a road bike locked up to the fence of the first house, so instead made a beeline for the shed out back.

“Hey, this ain't _Shaun of the Dead_ , there's nothin' in there,” Ellis called after him. Nick didn't respond; he knew the kid would follow.

“What're ya doin'? We got crowbars an' axes an' shit already, man, I want some _food_...”

Nick's mouth just barely moved in an almost-smile - the mechanic's proximity could be judged with precision based on the volume of his chatter. _Yup, ten feet and closing._

He tuned out a florid description of “ma's cheesy-mac,” instead reaching into his jacket for his lockpicks. The cheap padlock never stood a chance, and a few seconds later the shed door was open. Ellis changed topics like lightning.

“Damn, cool! Can ya teach me how ta do that? Always wanted ta steal stuff... Not like _that_ , not like real criminal breakin' inta houses n' shit, more like _Ocean's Eleven_ , ya seen that movie..?”

Nick quickly adjusted his eyes to the darkness inside the little structure. His roving gaze passed over piles of bicycle parts, sets of Allen wrenches, two helmets, and a water bottle before spotting a colorful box behind a pile of oily rags _._ His lips twitched smugly, and he cleared his throat so he'd have a chance to speak.

“Listen up, kid, what I'm gonna teach you could save your life.” Ellis fell silent immediately, much to Nick's pleasure. “Rule one: keep your eyes open. Rule two: know what you're looking for.”

The conman picked up the box and displayed it to his companion. He was still a little unsure about his feelings towards the mechanic, but one thing seemed obvious: the kid needed a mentor. Without some street smarts, he wouldn't make it very far in the world outside Savannah. _Hell, he won't make it far **here** until every last fucking smoker is dead... _ A sudden, bizarre surge of rage made his empty stomach clench, and he had to work to rein in his confusingly protective anger.

Ellis lit up at the sight of the box. “What's this... 'Clif Bars?' Like energy bars? Hot shit, man, how'd ya know?” He grabbed one, tore off the wrapper and attacked the food with gusto.

Nick resisted the urge to laugh; the kid ate like a Marine! “The more you know about people, the better you are at getting what you need from 'em.”  He pointed through the open door. “See that bike outside?”

Ellis followed his finger and nodded, mouth full of peanuts and protein isolate.

“That kind of bicycle, with narrow tires and curvy handlebars, only ever belongs to one kind of person. That kind of person _always_ does his own maintenance, usually in a shed like this. And they'll _always_ have protein bars.” He did a quick tally. “There's enough for each of us to have three, not counting the one you just ate.”

The mechanic swallowed and let the empty wrapper fall. “Well, color me impressed. Anythin' else we should take?”

“Grab that backpack, dump anything that's not food or water. We'll need to carry these.” Nick pushed his loot at Ellis and continued poking around the shed. No chainsaw, unfortunately, but the water bottle was still half-full and he found a small bag of energy supplements under one of the helmets. He half-considered swiping a pair of neon-yellow spandex shorts, idly plotting some sort of practical joke, but Ellis interrupted his machinations with a chuckle.

“What's so funny, Overalls?”

“Th... think we'll be needin' these?” the mechanic asked, choking back laughter. Nick turned to see him crouched by the bag, brazenly displaying a handful of condoms with a salacious grin on his face. “There's, like, a dozen. An' lube. An' a blindfold. An'...”

“And _stop_ ,” Nick demanded, massaging his temple. Apparently the owner of this shed liked it kinky, but dear lord that was the _last_ thing he wanted to think about right now. Judging by the sounds of his amusement, though, Ellis clearly felt otherwise. Nick grimaced, remembering another one of the rules he'd made in Vegas: never get caught without a condom.

“All right, fine, keep the rubbers, but the rest of it stays here.”

“Aww, yer no fun.”

Nick marched out of the shed and towards the house with as much dignity as he could manage, focusing very hard on the possible contents of the kitchen. He didn't see Ellis slip the bottle of lubricant into a pocket of his coveralls. 

Ellis swung the bag up onto his shoulders and followed, snickering like a schoolboy. Twenty-three or not, “mature” was a word infrequently used in conjunction with the excitable mechanic. He was actually pretty happy with the discovery; all those long nights awake, full of adrenaline with nothing to do, had once or twice resulted in some rather uncomfortable rashes. But now he had the little bottle that knocked against his leg with every step. Things would be much nicer from here on out.

Nick ignored him all the way up to the house. The back had been thoroughly fortified, but the front door hadn’t been boarded up yet. The lock quickly fell prey to the conman's experience with breaking-and-entering; guns raised, the survivors quietly swung it open and swept their lights around the foyer. All thoughts of self-service immediately evaporated from Ellis' mind, and the two men winced in unison. There had been one hell of a fight in here.

Nothing they'd seen so far in their trek through the ruins of Georgia could compare. Horror movie techs would have called the scene in the front hall “tacky;” and they'd have been right on two counts, both aesthetically and physically. Ellis felt his boots stick slightly when he moved, ever so cautiously, inside. His shadow stretched ahead of him as the setting sun shot cruel rays through the now-open door. The air was so thick with tangy stink that he nearly gagged, and the more he saw of the place the more he wanted to puke.

Blood decorated the walls as if a vampire had done the interior design. It coated the wallpaper up to head-level in most places, while in others it had dried and flaked off like gruesome scabs. As if the rest wasn't disturbing enough, none of the body parts strewn about looked infected, and the wounds were made by weapons, not claws or teeth. That meant – Ellis shuddered – somebody still human had done this. He forced himself to take another step, shining his light a little farther inside. Things lay broken on the floor, everywhere: furniture and plates, broken glass and human limbs, video games and children's toys...

“Oh god.”

Ellis didn't hear Nick's hissed warnings that there might still be zombies in here – his heart had begun pounding, and there was a high-pitched static in his ears. In a trance he lowered his rifle, stepped forward, and knelt down in the blood beside a tiny body riddled with bullets. She couldn't have been much older than four when she died, clutching a stuffed dolphin in one hand and a cheap plastic bat in the other.

Staring at her, Ellis fought with his own mind, trying to make sense of it. Death wasn't a big deal, right? After Keith, he'd thought that he'd never be upset by a corpse again. Certainly nothing that had happened since had shown otherwise.

But during their whole hellish journey through the wasteland, they'd only ever seen adults. Only adults were turned. Only grown-ups got sick or killed or left behind. Children had been evacuated first, practically before Patient Zero started coughing. They'd all been taken to safety...

...almost all.

Tears were forming in Ellis' eyes when he felt a touch on his arm. Slowly, shaking with fury and anguish, he raised his head.

Nick stood at his side looking like a god, rifle over his shoulder, backlit by the sun. His suit glowed white and his face was in shadow, and when he spoke it was with the voice of a vengeful father.

“There's a special place in hell for the monster that did this.”

 

Ellis couldn't keep it in anymore, and though he felt weak for crying so much lately, he didn't have a choice. As the salt water began to slide down his face Nick lifted him up, let their guns fall, and pulled him close. He couldn't have resisted if he'd wanted to.

He cried for the world. He cried for his family. He cried for Keith, and for two little girls who'd never get to grow up. He cried on the shoulder of a murderer, the man who held him tight and silently let his own tears soak into the mechanic's shirt.


	4. Chapter 4

“What the hell is taking them so long? I didn't hear any gunshots, did you?”

Coach shook his head, frowning. Rochelle paced back and forth in the middle of the road, a modest pile of nonperishable goods at her feet. Tension pulled at her skin and built in her head. They should have been back by now. Something was wrong. _Why didn’t I stop them from pairing off with each other? Now Ellis is alone with Nick... Stupid, stupid..._

“ _Rochelle_...” Her companion sounded so much like her father that the agitated woman stopped walking to look at him. “You still ain't listenin' t'me. This place look safe t’ you? _Let. It. Go._ ”

“But that's just it, the sun's going down and we've got to move and they're still not back! Something must have happened. We've got to find them.” She dropped her eyes to check her rifle’s magazine, but looked back up as Coach touched her arm.

“Now what do ya make of this...?”

Rochelle turned to follow his gaze and nearly dropped her weapon.

The missing men had emerged from the closest house looking like hell. Physically they were fine: no new wounds, no stains or rips in their clothing that hadn't been there before; but Ellis stared at the ground with all the life gone out of his shoulders, and Nick's poker face had vanished, replaced by a mask of tragedy. Neither carried any supplies, and Rochelle was flummoxed to see that this was because the conman held the mechanic's wrist in what looked like an iron grip. The odd pair slowly advanced to the middle of the street under their teammates' bewildered scrutiny. When they stopped Ellis did not look up, and Nick did not release his hand.

Piercing green met smoldering brown when Rochelle locked eyes with her suspect. The sky faded to indigo as they stood face-to-face across a tiny heap of canned tuna, and not even Coach had the nerve to interrupt until -

“ _WHAAAAAAIIIIIIIIIYYYYY?_ ”

Their reflexes were so ingrained that the hunter dropped from mid-air with four different types of ammunition in its corpse. The wet _smack_ of flesh hitting asphalt echoed even louder than the simultaneous shots, and Coach snapped himself into action.

“Inside, _now_. Then some of us got some explainin' t' do.”

His flock numbly began to walk in the direction he pointed. Ellis dropped his hat back over his eyes when he turned, but Coach saw the redness around them, and the clean streaks traced down his face. Frowning and worried, he gathered the supplies and followed the other three survivors up the front steps.

The last place they'd looted wasn't a real safehouse, but the back door and windows were boarded up and there was enough heavy furniture available to securely block the front. Coach grimly herded everyone into the living room and took the center of the floor, standing ramrod straight with his arms crossed. Rochelle sat down several feet away from the other two, who together took over one end of the couch with a backpack at their feet. Surveying his audience, the old footballer despaired inside; he'd never liked having to discipline his kids back in the day, and what he was about to do promised to be even less pleasant.

“All right. I don't know what in _hell_ 's got into y'all, but it's damn well gettin' back out. First thing: Ellis. You okay, boy?”

“’M fine,” the mechanic muttered without raising his head.

“That's some bull-shit. You been actin' strange all day, an' don't you dare try n’ tell me you ain't been cryin'. Give it to me straight. _What happened?_ ”

“Leave him alone, Coach,” Nick said quietly when his companion didn't answer. “We found a kid back there. He's not ready to talk about it.”

Rochelle blinked in shock; a _child_? Here? She blinked again as she caught up with the second surprise: _Nick's standing up for Ellis?_

Coach heard the dangerous undertones in the conman's voice, and let that particular sleeping dog lie for the moment. He stored the fact of the gruesome discovery away so he could react to it later - now wasn't the time.

“Right, then. Ro. You got somethin' on yo’ mind. I guess now's the time to bring it all out. Go on.”

Now that the moment had come, Rochelle realized that she was terrified. She looked at Nick, sitting by Ellis like a guard dog, and steeled herself against that implacable, icy green stare.

“You admitted this morning you're a hitman, and 'Nick' isn't even your real name. Being a con artist is one thing, but the kind of murder and violence you were talking about is another! What the hell kind of _revenge_ were you after? Who the fuck _are_ you?” She was trembling, half in anger, half in fear, and could only barely maintain eye contact with the white-suited creature across the room.

Nick had known this was coming, but he'd hoped it wouldn't be this soon. For god's sake, he'd only admitted this shit to _himself_ less than twenty-four hours ago. How the hell could she expect him to just... just _bare his soul_ , right here, right now, after what he'd seen? It took everything he had to keep meeting her eyes, those dark pools he'd have been so glad to drown in yesterday. Now they were harsh, accusing.

He tried to find that division again, the bright barrier that kept the man he used to be in mental quarantine. It was slippery, eluding him, allowing old paranoia and distrust to strangle his new desire to start over. He desperately tried to overcome the instinct to hide, to lie, to run from these people who were getting too close. Why the hell was it so difficult? 

Ages passed in an unblinking instant. Nicolas Fields struggled to keep control, Jack Crisci begged to be heard, and Nick didn't know who would win - didn't know who he _wanted_ to win, didn't know who or what he was anymore... The only thing he knew was that he was in big trouble with the woman across the room. Her eyes demanded answers he couldn't give, bored into his skull with righteous fury that made him recoil like a demon from a cross. If he didn't do something soon, she was going to destroy him.

An instant before all hell broke loose, he felt a touch. Startled, he turned, and traded furious brown eyes for tear-scoured blue. Ellis dropped his gaze, and Nick followed it to see the mechanic's large, rough hand just barely nudging up against his own. Tentatively, timidly, the younger man moved his fingers closer, making the fabric of the sofa hiss imperceptibly as his skin brushed across it.

The northerner stared, hypnotized; then on sudden impulse firmly grabbed Ellis' hand and gave it a gentle squeeze. Flesh and bone, cut and callus, warmth and sweat all felt more solid, more _real_ than anything else he'd touched in a long time. The sensations were brilliant flashes in his mind, chasing away the dark, anchoring him in reality just like that stupid grin could when everything seemed hopeless. Ellis returned the pressure, fingers curling around the heavy gold rings, promising unconditional support with the touch of skin on skin: _I've got your back._

Nick raised his head, and smiled.

“You're right. I'm a no-good son of a bitch. Long story short...”

He told them everything: how the Family took him in off the street; how he felt when Rebecca was born; how the divorce distracted him from work; how the Boss removed the distraction. Rochelle's face, which had been hard and merciless before, softened completely as he described the fire. She was on the verge of tears when he talked about his year of despair. She didn't interrupt once as he detailed his revenge and escape. Through the whole rendition, Nick didn't let go of Ellis' hand.

When he was done, Rochelle didn't react. She just sat and looked him, in silence that quickly became oppressive. He cleared his throat.

“So... That's it. Yes, I'm a scumbag. Yes, my morals are a joke. But you guys? Don't worry. I maybe kid about it, but I'm not gonna screw us... screw our _team_ over. I've... I've changed. _You've_ changed me.” He swallowed, mouth dry. He hadn't talked that much at once in... well, ever.

Coach rubbed his face. _I knew there was more to it,_ _but that's heavier than I was expectin'_ , he sighed to himself. _Don't change anythin', though. We're still all we've got._

“Why were you talking about it this morning?” Rochelle spoke up at last. “Why did you tell him your... your whole life story?”

Ellis, who'd been sitting silently through the entire thing, raised his head before Nick could answer.

“'Cause he listened ta mine.”

Rochelle tilted her head in confusion. “That seems wrong, on more than one level. Start from the beginning. Who told who what when?”

“Apparently I was really talkin' when I got knocked out,” the mechanic began. “Y'all didn't tell me that, when I woke up. Ya just said I'd been mutterin' nightmare shit. Well, Nick heard me say how I... I killed Keith, 'cause he was turnin' inta a zombie... There's a whole lotta shit I ain't too keen on discussin' right now. Point is, we been through the same kinda hell.” Ellis avoided the shocked and pitying looks of his teammates, and unconsciously tightened his grip on Nick's hand. The conman took it as a cue, and leaped to the kid's defense.

“It's been four years since all that shit. I'd've been happy to let it die, but hearing the kid talk in his sleep kinda brought it all up again. And neither of us is particularly thrilled about crap coming back to bite us in the ass, so if this interview's over, I want to eat and get some sleep.” He looked challengingly from one inquisitor to the other, daring them to ask even one more goddamned question.

Coach didn't know what to say. His posture had degraded from 'angry teacher' to 'tired old man,' and he had some serious thinkin' to do before he would feel justified in forming an opinion. He also recognized the defensiveness in the other two; there they were, sitting close together on the couch, eyes red and exhausted... actually _holding hands_ for Christ's sake!

 _PTSD can do some weird things to a man, but I'd never have guessed it could make those two quit fightin' with each other._ He sighed heavily. Better this than what had happened to his cousin after the Gulf, but dollars to doughnuts the boys wouldn't be saying much more tonight.

After dinner Coach and Rochelle made themselves comfortable by the front door. They didn't mind staying up for a bit anyway; there was a lot to talk about.

“Well, baby girl, I guess we're both right. Nick's done worse'n we thought, an' it don't change a thing. Do ya feel better, at least, gettin' it all out in the open?”

The journalist didn't look up from a close inspection of her ruined boots. “It makes me feel better that Ellis is on his side. I trust that boy's sense of people. But it's gonna take me a while to get used to all of this.” She shrank into herself, hunching her shoulders like a misbehaving student in the principal's office. “I can't picture it, Coach. Nick with a kid? Ellis killing Keith? But if it's the truth... Knights of Columbus, no _wonder_ they act the way they do. That kind of shit'll screw anybody up in the head.”

“'The way they do?' Y'mean...”

“Like a sociopath and a redneck on speed. I bet they're a lot easier to get along with, in real life... Well, Ellis might be. Nick's probably always been an awful person.”

Coach couldn't help chuckling at that. “An’ do ya believe him, that he's changin'?”

“I don't know, but I guess we'll see. We haven't got a choice.”

* * *

 

Ellis had enough self-control back to use his youthful appearance to his advantage. One flash of his wounded-puppy face secured the master bedroom for the night, and got him last watch instead of first. Dragging Nick along behind, he shut the door and collapsed exhausted on the blessedly clean mattress. Only when he was wrapped tight around a pillow did he release the other man's hand.

Nick sat at the edge of the bed and stretched his fingers out, regarding the mechanic's curled-up form with... what was it called? Sympathy. Now there's a word he hadn't used in eons. _Incredible how much can change in a day,_ he thought. _Overalls gets depressed, Rochelle gets paranoid, and I... Damn. What's happening to me?_

From his place on the blanket Ellis could feel the box-spring transmit his companion's movements. It creaked when Nick scooched up and lay back onto the pillows. For some bizarre reason, it was disappointing that the conman didn't come closer like he had the night before... but on second thought, maybe it wasn't so bizarre to feel that way. The events of the past twenty-four hours would leave _anyone_ wanting a hug, and Ellis had always believed there was nothing unmanly about offering or accepting comfort under those circumstances. Right now Nick sure seemed like he'd appreciate a little TLC, and for once the thought of providing some didn't seem like suicide. _Shit's made him diff'rent. Real diff'rent. Two days ago he'da decked me for even **thinkin'** of touchin' him. So how far's too far, tonight...?_

He wished this were a video game. A checkpoint would be hella useful right about now, so he could rewind if what he was about to do proved to be a terrible, horrible, no-good, very bad idea.

 _Eh, screw it_.

He rolled over.

Nick blinked sleepily at the young man who'd suddenly claimed dominion over his torso, and carefully removed the trucker hat that was poking him in the nose. Ellis had slid an arm between the conman's jacket and his shirt, cuddling close with his left leg half-draped over Nick's right. It would have been extremely comfortable if not for the multitude of hard, lumpy things stashed in those impossibly roomy coveralls.

“Hey, kid,” Nick began, and put a hand on Ellis' shoulder as a sign that he wasn't angry. “That Molotov you picked up, put it over there. It's jamming into my knee.”

“Oh. Sorry. Guess I'm used to it by now,” the mechanic muttered as he sat up and emptied his pockets. Two firebombs, three energy bars, a utility knife, a pound of ammo, an adrenaline shot, and a pistol all went onto the bedside table before he blushed furiously and removed the little bottle of lubricant he'd picked up in the shed. Nick raised an eyebrow in amusement.

“Didn't I tell you to leave that behind?”

“Shut up.” Ellis, embarrassed, began to lie down on his own side of the bed.

“Aw, I didn't mean it like that. C'mere.” Nick pulled the younger man back and wrapped an arm around him, relishing the feeling of nonviolent human contact. Better than nonviolent: amiable, undemanding. Just being there. It was... nice. Very nice. He closed his eyes.

Ellis was relieved - he wasn't in trouble. Far from it, in fact. Nick seemed happy to lie there with him, comfort him, share the silence of the things that were impossible to say. His embrace was warm and secure and reassuring, but before Ellis drowned in his musky scent and drifted off to sleep there was one more thing to do.

“Nick?”

“Yeah?”

“Thanks.”

“For what?”

“Y'know. Just thanks.”

Nick chuckled, a rich sound warmer than the blankets they lay on.

“Sure thing, kiddo.”

As much as Ellis deserved thanks in return, Nick couldn't bring himself to say it. Instead he listened as the mechanic’s breathing slowed to an even rhythm, and absentmindedly stroked those soft brown curls like a woman's tresses. Though he was exhausted, he couldn't turn off his thoughts, and sleep would not come.

The mattress was soft. The sheets were clean. The pillows were downright luxuriant after so many rough nights on concrete. Even Ellis' unconscious body was comfortable, warm and snugly draped across Nick's chest. The darkness around them was complete, and still he lay awake. Something was bothering him, and the harder he tried to figure it out the more elusive it was.

Annoyed, he stared at the ceiling and tried counting cards. The technique usually helped him focus and calm down, and at first it seemed to be working; but he was halfway through his second game when it hit him.

 _Ah, tits,_ he grouched to himself, and expertly disentangled himself from Ellis' grasp. The southerner barely stirred, testament to Nick's years of practice with one-night stands. Silently closing the door behind him, the sleepy con padded down the stairs to the front hall.

His teammates looked up in surprise. Rochelle stiffened a bit; Coach got that infuriating father-knows-best expression again.

“Thought’chu were sleepin', boy. What’chu doin' down here?”

Nick's eyes flickered from Coach to Rochelle. He opened his mouth, ready to deliver a line, but it died on his tongue. That crap wasn't going to work here. He was going to have to be – gulp – _honest._ The idea made him cringe inside, and he had to re-sort his thoughts into an acceptable format.

“Ah... Well, the kid's out cold. You guys weren't satisfied with our little interrogation back there, so I figure I can fill in some gaps, maybe ease your mind a bit.” His gaze lingered on Rochelle just a second too long before returning to Coach. “I know things've been tense today. We can't keep going like this.”

His teammates shared a Look. Nick's stomach churned. That Look usually meant somebody was in Big Trouble, and it sure wasn't either of them.

“What happened in that house.” It was a statement, not a question, and Rochelle's voice could have rivaled Nick's in the ice department.

He sighed heavily and sat on a nearby table, not wanting to revisit the scene but accepting that he had no choice.

“I don't know, but it was bad. Somebody'd gone off the fucking deep end. Blood and bodies everywhere, none of 'em infected, no signs of zombies at all. Everyone'd been killed with blades or bullets. And Ellis found a kid, maybe four years old. It was... it was awful.”

Coach had never heard the gambler's voice like that. It didn't have any of its customary smooth polish or abrasive edge. There was a quiet tremble under his tired baritone, almost like he was fighting tears. Maybe that was the case, too; those hard green eyes were downcast, with none of their usual glint.

“An' then what'd you do?” Coach prompted after a moment of silence.

“Psh. Whadaya think? We lost it. We both lost it. He started bawling, set me off. Real touching, I'm sure, if you'd seen it.” A hint of Nick's usual scathing attitude broke through the otherwise rawly genuine story. “Yeah, yeah, bastard's got a heart, whatever. Goddamn it, I swear even the fucking _Nazis_ would've felt bad in there. Even that sadist from the _Saw_ movies would've felt sick.”

Rochelle was feeling sick just listening. “Enough. I get it. So you just left?”

Nick raised his face to her again. “After god knows how long crying our brains out, yes. Look, I know what you're afraid of. I _swear_ I didn't hurt him.”

There it was, another huge blast of silent eloquence. Rochelle locked onto his emerald eyes, determined to find his exact meaning this time.

“Why should I believe you? You’ve never cared about us before. How can I be sure we’re not just baggage, to you? Are we tools for you to use and throw away?”

Nick recoiled like she'd struck him. She might not have been practiced at reading faces, but even she could tell that what he said next was the naked truth.

“ _No_. Look, I'm not sure what I think about _myself_ anymore, but I literally can't live without you guys. Even when we get out of here, there's no way in hell I can go back to what I was. ' _Y'all_ ' are more like family than my real family ever was, okay? Not that it's saying much, but it's true.” Clearly it took great effort to make the admission, and he cringed once it was out as if he expected somebody to hit him for it.

Coach raised an eyebrow and glanced at Rochelle. “What I tell ya, baby girl?”

She didn't see the look, unable to pull her attention away from the humbled man sitting in front of them.

“That's not everything, is it?”

Nick froze, poker face incomplete. He didn’t like asking anybody for anything, let alone Rochelle, let alone _this_ , but there was one last stall he could use...

“Coach? Listen, I know we don't get along most of the time, but I want you to know you've got my respect. If you were my father I'd never have turned out so shitty.” He managed a half-smile, and was relieved to get one in return.

“Boy, if you were my son I'd be askin' God for a refund!”

“Gee, thanks, buddy. That means a lot.”

Rochelle snickered in spite of herself, and had to force her face into composure. It was much easier when Nick turned his burning green eyes back on her.

“You go get some rest, _dad_. I'll take next watch.”

Coach stiffened and opened his mouth to protest, but Rochelle caught his eye. She had a sneaking suspicion, and if she had to be alone with Nick to get to the bottom of it, fine. The older man saw her meaning with a grimace, silently stood up, and went in search of a downstairs bedroom.

They stared at each other until the sound of a closing door reached them from down the hall. Rochelle then folded her arms and gave the conman her best what-the-hell-do-you-think-you're-doing face. He'd managed to fix his trademark deadpan, but those piercing eyes were full of an intense heat.

“Why are you looking at me like that?”

Nick mentally kicked himself for letting it show. It wasn’t helping his case.

“I think you know, sweetheart.” She drew back her hand to slap him, but he didn't flinch, and his next words made her freeze. “But I'm not gonna touch you. All I want right now is for you to quit acting like I'm about to slit somebody's throat.”

Rochelle slowly lowered her hand, thrown for a loop. Nick looked a bit exasperated.

“Cut that out. You said no the first time, and I’m not gonna use this… this new shit as an excuse to push it. I _know_ I've got no chance, so I'll settle for you not hating my guts, okay?”

The light in his eyes subtly shifted from lust to determination. Rochelle felt relieved that the conman still respected her boundaries, but that little spark was nearly drowned out by confusion and shame. The man had gone to great lengths to talk with her, alone, for the sole purpose of mending the rift between them. In his own way, Nick was practically begging for forgiveness. It was uncomfortable, and Rochelle wasn't sure she wanted to comply.

“I’m still not sure I trust you.”

“Oh, for-” Nick swallowed his frustration and struggled to moderate his tone. “What have I ever done to you? Or Coach? Or Ellis? You think we'd even _be_ here if I up and decided, 'hey, fuck these losers'? I'm an asshole, but I'm not an idiot.”

“Jury's still out on that one, honey.” Rochelle nearly smirked at his reaction to the insult. “Besides a lot of trash-talk, you haven't done anything to me or Coach. That I'll give you. But since last night there's been something seriously wrong with Ellis-”

“We _just_ went over-”

“Hush your mouth! I was _saying_ I don't think I blame you, but I swear to _God_ if you make it worse I will strangle you with your own suit, you hear me?”

“Christ, Rochelle, you think the kid's hanging around me 'cause I make him feel like shit? No way in hell I'd _ever_...” Nick trailed off, stunned less by what he was about to say than by the realization that he meant it.

“No way you'd ever _what_?”

“I'd never hurt him,” he finished quietly. “Fuck me, he... I think... Shit.”

Rochelle got the feeling that the conman had gone completely into his own head, and watched with interest as his face lost its hard edges. He stared into space with a look of vaguely pained shock, slipped off the edge of the table, and retreated back up the stairs in a daze.

Bewildered and alone in the hall, Rochelle stared after him for longer than she'd care to admit before snapping back to attention. _Looks like I'm on first watch,_ she thought with a sigh, curling up and hugging her knees to her chest. A minute later a thought struck her, and she shook her head in resignation.

_I guess he really has changed._


	5. Chapter 5

The moon had risen enough to cast silver zebra stripes through the gaps in the boarded-up window. They lay in glowing slices over the floor, the walls, the bed; and Nick stood in the doorway, letting the sight soak into him.

For the second time in as many nights he realized how drop-dead gorgeous Ellis was, asleep with pale light shining across his face. All the color was leached out of his skin, but the stark greyscale had its own charm: a sort of sharp hyper-reality that made his closed eyes and unshaven cheek seem impossibly perfect. Nick just stared, trying to figure out why he was noticing these things; but he couldn't tell where the thoughts came from, and that was terrifying.

One thing, however, had suddenly become crystal clear: he cared about the kid. A lot. The question he still didn't want to face was what sort of care it _was_ , exactly. Nothing good would come of examining it too much, he knew; but as he carefully lay down on his side of the bed Nick found himself struggling to pin a name on it anyway.

Possessive, protective, affectionate, sympathetic, supportive. What kind of relationship did those feelings define? Older brother made sense, considering their ages, but with memories of Rebecca fresh in his mind Nick had to admit that there was some paternal instinct there, too. Not to mention – he smirked – Ellis always seemed to act like a goddamn ten-year-old. A little discipline wouldn't go amiss.

But there was more, an infuriating and repressed little _something_ that didn't fit with either explanation. It slithered up his spine, clenching his throat in an unpleasantly familiar way. It had bothered him since day one of this insane adventure and hadn't melted with the rest of its kind when he'd opened up to the kid that morning. He had a queasy suspicion he knew why, but every alarm in his head went off at once at the prospect of articulating the reason. He sighed – it was past time to quit this introspective nonsense and get some rest.

Just as he'd made the decision to close his eyes Ellis turned in his sleep, cuddled close, and started to nuzzle Nick's jaw just below his ear. The conflicted conman's gut did a somersault - the contact was startlingly different from the so-far-platonic comfort they'd been sharing with each other, and it took great strength of will to keep from leaping out of bed that very second. Instead the northerner froze and frantically tried to calm his accelerated heartbeat.

_He's asleep, he's asleep, it's okay... Don't freak, you'll wake him up..._

A tiny, isolated voice from the back of his mind snickered at him. _Yeah, sure, 'you'll wake him up.' That's **totally** why you don't want to move._

“Fan-freakin'-tastic,” he whispered angrily, and desperately tried to think of anything other than his own infuriating subconscious. Of course his mind immediately went to the mechanic – it was kind of hard to notice anything else.

Ellis was breathing on his neck, warm air softly blowing at the regular intervals of deep sleep. The kid's left hand draped across Nick's waist, its dreamy twitches becoming an inadvertent caress; and one canvas-wrapped leg lay across the conman's hips, leaving him trapped while Ellis half-straddled him. Altogether it was a very intimate position, but what made Nick uncomfortable was that he _wasn't_ uncomfortable with it. In fact, he rather liked it. A lot.

 _God damn it all to hell,_ he growled, squeezing his eyes shut. _Don't you **dare** start thinking of him like that! It's been a long day, that's all. Just get some sleep. You'll be fine in the morning._

But once he finally grew accustomed to his bunkmate and slipped into an uneasy slumber, Nick unconsciously shifted to return Ellis' hug.

When Coach tiptoed in much later to relinquish guard duty he blinked, smiled, and turned right back around. The two men were tangled close together, gripping each other tight, and their old sentry couldn't bring himself to disturb them.

* * *

 

Cozy and content, Ellis resisted the slow morning ascent to wakefulness. Keeping his eyes shut against the dawn, he ducked his head and snuggled down farther into his warm cocoon. Dreams fluttered at the edge of his consciousness – good ones, bittersweet ones, but no nightmares. With a tiny half-whimper he tried to recapture the experience he'd been having. Nick was teaching him and his friends how to knock over a casino... Or maybe they were teaching him to repair a transmission... It got fuzzier and fuzzier in the growing light of day, and the mechanic muttered incoherently as his brain started to come online.

“Uh-uh, this's how ya... like this...” He stirred, hands automatically flexing, and was cautiously opening his eyes when he grabbed something unexpected.

If he hadn't been eighty percent asleep he would have jumped in surprise. Instead he had a strong sense of deja vu – here he was again, curled up with his teammate like a high-school couple at a sleepover. Unlike the night before, though, Ellis was an active participant this time. His face was snugly tucked into the hollow between Nick's shoulder and neck, and what his left hand had touched turned out to be an extremely awkward part of the conman's lower back. On closer inspection Ellis discovered that a white-suited thigh lay straight across his rear, and his own left leg was wrapped intimately around Nick's.

A blush rose in the young man's cheeks as more neural circuits activated. Innocent emotional support was one thing, but this was _definitely_ another, and as soon as he tried to move Ellis nearly freaked out. Of course men often had a certain 'natural condition' in the morning, but it wasn't every day he woke up with _somebody else's_ poking into his hip.

Ellis gingerly extricated himself from the compromising position, doing his damnedest not to wake the other man. Somehow he managed it, but as he slipped off the bed to reload his pockets, Nick stirred. He seemed to be searching for something to hold on to, fingers digging at the blankets and forehead creasing with distress, so the mechanic carefully nudged a pillow in between the conman's arms. As soon as the slumbering gambler touched it he latched on, and curled around it like his partner was still in bed with him.

Vaguely amused, Ellis adjusted himself and started shoving things back into his coveralls. His blush returned in full force when he picked up the lube, but even only half-awake he wasn't comfortable thinking about such things. Into his pocket it went, along with the Molotovs and the adrenaline. When he looked back at the dozing conman, though, Ellis felt a strange little buzz in his gut. He quickly tore his gaze away and put on his cap – that was a place he did not want to go. With his luck it would make things between them get all awkward and antagonistic again, so he called upon his godlike powers of denial, and simply refused to acknowledge it.

Diffuse, pinkish light filled the downstairs and gilded the barricade on the front door. Ellis almost knocked his hat off when he smacked himself in the face, realizing that he hadn't taken a turn on watch last night. Though he was glad for it – he'd needed the rest – he felt like he'd shirked his duty, especially when he noticed Coach. The older man was stretched out on the couch, snoring gently with his gun dangling from his hand. Ellis winced with guilt.

 _Poor guy... Keepin' us t'gether all day, an' then stayin' up all night... Why didn't he come trade off?_ He had a strong suspicion of why, actually - if he ever walked in on what he'd woken up to, he'd definitely leave plenty quick - but he’d already blocked those thoughts out, subconsciously finding it preferable to remain in the dark.

Extremely carefully, Ellis approached from the direction opposite where the rifle was pointing. First restraining Coach's gun hand, he then shook the man's shoulder and spoke quietly.

“Hey, Coach, rise'n'shine. Y'know, ya didn't hafta stay up all night...”

The safety precaution proved to be wise, as Coach's waking reflex was to try to shoot. As soon as he registered that there was no threat, though, he relaxed.

“Mornin', boy,” he said with a yawn. “Obviously I _didn't_ stay up the whole time... I figured we all could use some shut-eye, so I made the barricade strong enough t’ let it alone. The others up yet?”

“Nah. I'll go get Ro, where's she sleepin'?”

Coach gave him a funny look, like he'd expected the mechanic to wake Nick, and Ellis ignored it.

“Down the hall, second door on the right. Want me t'get our own personal jailbird, then?”

“Yeah, whatever,” the mechanic absentmindedly called over his shoulder, already halfway to the guest bedroom.

He knocked first, since ev'ryone knows it ain't polite to barge in on a lady without permission. Initially there was no answer, so he tapped a little louder and called to her softly.

“Ro? Time ta wake up, girl. I can get'cha breakfast if ya want me to, we got some peaches inna can, I think...”

He was raising his hand for a third try when the door opened. Rochelle had either been awake for some time or could magically make herself presentable in under a minute; apparently the latter was true, since she bent down to finish adjusting her boot as soon as she let go of the doorknob.

“Morning, honey. That's awfully sweet of you, but I'm awake. I'll get those peaches myself.” She straightened and smiled at him, a tired but relieved expression. The young man could tell that a weight had been lifted from her shoulders, but didn't know why; none of the memories he had left of last night seemed very relieving. Nonetheless, it was good to see her relaxed again, and Ellis gave her a big grin.

“All right, let's get movin'! Miles ta go 'fore we sleep, an' all that stuff...”

Rochelle watched him go with bewilderment. _Robert Frost? Has that boy ever even **seen** snow?_

She checked the bandage on her arm and followed, shaking her head. At least he was getting back to normal.

* * *

 

“Get _up_ , c'mon now, we ain't got all day!”

Nick jerked awake suddenly enough to reel from backlash. He was clutching a pillow tight with one arm and reaching out with the other, stretching, desperate to touch what was no longer there. He abruptly rolled over and sat up as Coach stopped shaking his shoulder. The dreamer glared up at the big man standing imperiously by the bed, and automatically got snarky to give himself time to adjust.

“What the hell? I was promised a _handsome_ prince would rescue me in a thousand years.” Much to his dismay, Coach shot right back.

“His Highness woke up first, _my lady_. Y'gotta get movin' if ya want a kiss.” The sly grin on his usually stern face made Nick's stomach turn to ice.

“Oh, fuck off. Go have breakfast – I think we've got a poisoned apple down there somewhere.”

Coach chuckled. “Don't'chu start mixin' fairy tales, son, or I'ma go all Brothers Grimm on yo' ass. Gitcho'self up, now, or your One True Love is gonna leave without’cha.”

 _Fuck fuck mother of dammit and TITS_... Nick glared speechless green death at Coach's retreating back. _Fine in the morning, my ass! How the **hell** does he know?_ Enraged and slightly terrified, the conman swung his feet to the floor and dropped his head into his hands. This was ridiculous. Worse than ridiculous, it was unacceptable. Personal, life-changing upheaval? Fine. Flipping a shit and turning into some kind of emotional wreck? Most definitely _not_ fine.

With iron will and imaginary cards he got himself together. A quick trip to the bathroom scored some mouthwash, a few first-aid supplies, and a chance to comb his hair properly. When he finally descended the stairs he felt halfway decent again.

The other three were in the middle of breakfast when Nick walked into the kitchen and set his loot down on the counter. Ellis tossed him a can of something, and for once the conman was hungry enough that he didn't care what was in it. He felt the mushy food pump energy back into his limbs, an intense craving for coffee drowning out the metallic, processed taste.

When everyone was finished eating he cleared his throat for attention, and displayed the bottle of mouthwash he'd found upstairs. Their faces brightened up, especially Rochelle's, and they passed the stuff around like college kids with a joint. Its minty bite was far more pleasant than the reek of pot smoke, though, and all four of them felt much less disgusting afterward. It wasn't as good as a shower, but it was enough to let them pretend to be human again.

Ellis piped up as they were preparing to leave.

“Hey, maybe we should search s'more houses 'fore we go. If we ain't takin' the highway we're gonna need more supplies'n this, 'cause the middle of Alabama is... Well, it's the middle of Alabama.” He looked a little sheepish, but the statement made the other three laugh.

“True dat, son. Let's make a list.”

They quickly drew up a game plan. First, find backpacks; Ellis already had one, so he'd be carrying everything until the others got their own. Supplies of priority were clean water, ammo, and first aid; food, ranked by nutrition-to-weight ratio; then hygiene. They were disinclined to split up again, and since all the houses in the neighborhood had the same layout, everyone took a standard quadrant so that the search would be efficient.

The system worked like a charm. There were only a couple of zombies in any given house, and even the occasional special infected weren't that hard to take out. Nick and Ellis had a little trouble, shuddering and feeling sick every time the group opened a front door; but they worked through it, and after only an hour of pillaging the survivors each wore a backpack laden with supplies. Rochelle had even replaced her old, fashionable boots with a sturdy pair of trail-running shoes. Coach had found a small bag of flares, to signal for help if they needed to. Nick lit up a cigarette, but spat it out immediately – having forcibly broken the habit by necessity over the last month, the thing now tasted awful. Aggravated, he stuffed his pockets with matches and ammunition instead.

Ellis had a new best friend. A little less than three feet long, the device had a crowbar head at one end and a vicious-looking combination of pickaxe, hammer, and wrench at the other. It was solid steel but surprisingly easy to swing, and as soon as he picked it up he knew he had to have it.

“Ooh, this feels right. This feels real right,” he said lovingly as he hefted it. “I dunno what it's s'posed ta be, but it's mine now.”

He fashioned a holster for it to hang off his hip like a sword. The group eyed it with suspicion at first, but as soon as Ellis smashed a zombie's head in with it their attitude changed to intense respect.

“Aw man, I love this thing!” he declared, and looked it over thoughtfully. “Hm, maybe I should name it... How 'bout 'Ash,' like from _Evil Dead_? That guy's a goddamn zombie-killin' machine... Eh, naw, it don't sound quite right... Ooh, what about...” He threw out name after name, but wasn't satisfied with any of them. His muttering was starting to get on everyone's nerves when inspiration hit Coach. He smiled.

“FUBAR,” he said. Ellis raised an eyebrow quizzically, so he clarified. “It's an Army thing, stands for 'Fucked Up Beyond All Repair.' That bitch''s freakin' _designed_ t' fuck shit up, and it's half crowbar, so...” The mechanic's grin got wider and wider as Coach spoke, and he looked over his new weapon with pride.

“FUBAR... Yeah! I like it!” His eyes shone as he tenderly held the newly Christened weapon, and he tasted the name on his tongue like a fine wine. “ _FUBAR_... You an' me, baby, we're goin' all the way. Ain't no zombie can stop us now!”

Ellis sounded downright seductive, and Nick felt a sudden, intense jolt of unfamiliar hunger when he heard it. Disconcerted, he nearly missed a step, and had to fight to suppress the sensation before he did something stupid. Time for evasive tactic number one.

“Shut up, Overalls. This may be Alabama, but it's still illegal to marry inanimate objects.” Nick was relieved to see the kid snap out of it, but the feeling was brief. For what might have been the first time ever, Ellis snarked right back, with an expression that sent heat curling around the conman's lungs.

“Shut up yerself, Fancy Suit. Yer just jealous I ain't gonna be holdin' yer hand no more.”

Nick was too stunned to respond. Rochelle clamped a hand over her mouth to hold back laughter. Coach rubbed his temple like he was getting a headache, and saved the conman from the humiliation of failing to retaliate.

“Boys, I'm happy y'all ain't mopin' around anymore, but fightin' with each other doesn't get us anywhere. Move!”

Ellis continued down the street with a smile of wicked satisfaction and a spring in his step, pointedly ignoring a little voice in the back of his mind.

_But... I **like** holdin' his hand..._

* * *

 

Some time after lunch the four survivors officially crossed from suburbia to the rural fringe of civilization. Nick muttered darkly about white trash and inbred racist dickwads as they passed building after building decorated with stars-and-bars. For once, none of the others felt the need to tone him down.

“One good thing about obnoxious back-births,” he commented after a brief scuffle with some infected, “They leave plenty of ammo lying around. Ellis, I take back all that shit I said about you. It's these people I should be calling 'Overalls.'”

Nobody could disagree with him. Pretty much every stereotype about the South could easily have started in this town, and a small army could have been supplied for a year with the firearms in any individual house. Each member of the group stocked up with as much as they could carry, and they moved on through hicksville at a steady pace. It was nice not having to worry about where their next bullets would come from, but there were some drawbacks, too.

“All this stuff's getting heavy,” Rochelle said wearily as the sun began to set. They'd made good progress that afternoon, but the full packs of supplies were no insignificant weight during combat. None of the men would admit to it, but even Ellis was getting tired.

“Let's find someplace to stop for the night, then,” Coach agreed. “We'll be leavin' this neighborhood behind soon, and I wanna sleep in a real bed one more time ‘fore we gotta start campin' in the woods.”

“Ooh, but livin' outside's fun! Some a' the best sleep I ever got was out in the woods, just me n' Keith n' Dave, an' Mother Nature all 'round...”

“Ellis, honey? Save it for the campfire, okay?”

“We're gonna have a campfire?! Oh man, oh man, this is gonna be _awesome_!”

Nick glared at Rochelle. “Dammit, cupcake, you just _had_ to get him started.”

She rolled her eyes to the sky in a silent prayer for patience, and did not answer.

They picked the sturdiest-looking structure on the street that they could still get into. Happily there weren't any bodies inside, reanimated or otherwise, so they established a perimeter and prepared to bunk down for the night. Rochelle found a case of beer during a brief search of the place and tried to hide it, but Ellis spotted the bright labels before she could stuff them into a cupboard.

“Holy shit, Ro, yer amazin'!” He whisked the box away and pulled a couple more out of the same cabinet. Much to the journalist’s chagrin, he managed to collect nearly a whole party's worth and dragged it all into the den.

When she returned to the others they each held a bottle. Nick grouched about the fact that it was warm, but had some anyway.

“I'm going to assume you gentlemen know better than to get drunk,” she stated flatly, crossing her arms. “But if you're going to be staying up, one of you can have first watch tonight. I'm going to bed.”

“Not it,” Ellis immediately called out, touching his nose with a finger. Coach sighed.

“Ain't gonna be me, neither. I didn't get enough shuteye last night.”

“Fine,” Nick grumbled. “But you're helping me with the barricade first.”

Rochelle shook her head with a tiny smile, glancing keenly between the two younger men before heading off to find a bed. They'd both stiffened slightly at Coach's statement, just enough to set her mind in motion. She couldn't help getting all up in their business, and fell asleep playing behavioral connect-the-dots.

* * *

 

Nick sat up with the booze for hours. At first he amused himself by picking off zombies through a window, but had to stop when Coach threw a Bible at him for making too much noise. _It's probably the only book in this house,_ he thought scathingly as he put his sniper rifle away and picked up another beer.

It took quite a few, but with the help of some cheap vodka he discovered under the sink he managed to get himself thoroughly sloshed. Alone in the dark was not a good place to be when there were unpleasant things to avoid thinking about, and Nick was desperately trying not to dwell on several uncomfortable topics. All that business with Ellis had temporarily masked the more important issue of Rebecca, and that would have been fine if he hadn't wanted to ignore the mechanical problem too. Alcohol, of course, did not help matters in the slightest; and he got himself drunker than he'd been in years.

Hating himself, the conman gritted his teeth against the sting he could feel behind his eyes. Emptiness had settled in his chest, a gaping hole where his precious baby girl should have been. For four years he'd filled it with greed, lust, self-importance, and lies, but now all that was stripped away. He had to face it head-on with no backup, no helpline, no distractions; and it hurt. Oh, God, it hurt. Grief and guilt clawed at his guts like pissed-off witches, and he didn't notice when the wetness began to trickle down his face.

Silent and numb, Nick opened another beer; but just before he took a sip, he stopped. The moon had risen, if possible even brighter than the night before, and those silver stripes of light were shining across the room again. Moments passed and he sat frozen, ethanol-addled mind working slow as molasses and fast as lightning.

He put the bottle down.

* * *

 

Ellis woke suddenly, adrenaline pumping through his veins. He tried to sit up but was paralyzed, arms pinned to his sides and the couch solid against his back. It took a couple of seconds to process the situation, but when he was up to speed he didn't relax one bit.

He couldn't move his arms because somebody was holding him tight. He couldn't see much because somebody's face was in the way. He couldn't yell because somebody was kissing him – very, very tenderly and very, very well.

Obviously this was a dream, then. And a nice one, at that. Ellis went along with it, closing his eyes again and parting his lips to return the kiss, tongue gently sweeping across his partner's mouth to request entry. She responded almost hungrily, deepening the contact without too much force – and suddenly the taste of alcohol was overwhelming.

Ellis' eyes snapped open again and he started to squirm, trying to pull his head back, but there was no place to go. In a panic he bit down on Nick's lip, not hard enough to draw blood but more than enough to hurt. The conman jerked away and let go, letting Ellis jump to his feet and start wiping at his mouth to get the taste out.

“What. The. _FUCK!?_ ” he yelled as quietly as he could. “What the hell, you... I... Shit, just... _WHAT?_ ” His heart could have been a hummingbird's, it was going so fast – but not only from shock or revulsion. The delighted flutter in his stomach said so.

Nick rose from his position by the couch and stared, slightly unfocused, at the keyed-up young man in front of him. With effort he took a step forward and steadied himself on Ellis' shoulder. The mechanic was trembling, but didn't try to escape.

“You... You're what's missing. 'M missing it. Right here.” He touched his chest in the general vicinity of his heart.

“Man, you are _plastered_! Why the-” Nick shushed him with a finger.

“Doesn't matter. Still true sober, just got too big a stick up my ass to admit it.” He paused, trying to be coherent. He had to make Ellis understand. “I lost something, long time ago, when she died. Big chunk of Jack. Gone. Never got it back, never gave a shit about it. But now I do, and it's _you_ , El. I need you.”

“Nick, yer drunk, yer gonna regret this in the mornin'...” Ellis desperately balanced pride against desire, the wild hope that what he'd been denying might be real.

_But it's wrong, all yer life ya known it's wrong..._

_I don't care._

_What would Momma say?_

_Momma ain't here._

_It's sinnin' in the eyes of God!_

_If He gave a damn, ain't none a' this'd be happenin'._

_But..._

**_I don't care._ **

He moved in, tentatively, to brush Nick's lips with his own. The conman responded firmly for a split second, then staggered. Ellis laughed, nervous but relieved, and guided his inebriated teammate down to the couch.

“Y'all get some sleep, now. This never happened, okay?”

Nick nodded weakly, but kept Ellis from leaving with a surprisingly strong tug on his shirt. The mechanic was forced to bend right into another kiss, this time a gentle one on his forehead.

“G'night, kid.”

Ellis recovered his rifle and hat, shakily preparing for second watch. Just before he left the room he looked back, straight into the burning green eyes that were watching him go.


	6. Chapter 6

Ellis paced back and forth by the door, mind numb and body trembling. Every so often he kicked an empty bottle aside, each time freshly amazed at the amount Nick had drunk. The sheer volume of it was oddly reassuring at first; nobody could consume that much alcohol and remember it later. Especially if half the alcohol was vodka, and the conman had apparently downed plenty of that, too. It made sense to assume that his little... _episode_ had been a product of booze-fueled depression. No _way_ he'd have kissed Ellis sober. It was all a big sitcom misunderstanding, and they'd both want to forget it by morning.

But a flaw appeared in this explanation almost before it was finished.

_Maybe he didn't mean it, but... I did, an' I ain't drunk._

Ellis absentmindedly ran a finger across his lips as he thought, confused and a little ashamed. He tried to distract himself from the entire situation, but no matter what he started thinking about it always came back to something he'd rather avoid. As soon as he realized the cycle he reflexively stuck a hand into his pocket, reaching for the adrenaline like he'd done so many times before; but tonight the needle didn't help. The biggest dose he dared to take made no difference. He was wired and shaking anyway, and he cursed himself for a fool as his strides increased in speed. Maybe Nick had the right idea, and beer would've been a better plan than stimulants.

Ellis used the nervous energy to turn the den and kitchen upside-down, finding some interesting books, yet more ammunition, and a bag of marshmallows that he was too upset to be excited about at that particular moment. When the adrenaline wore off at last he collapsed into the very same chair the conman had occupied not an hour earlier. He picked up a bottle, open but untouched, and forced himself to drink it slowly. He fled from memories of the bloody house, only to run face-first into Keith. It didn't matter what story he brought to mind, which wacky escapade they'd once shared. Every single one led to the same awful place, silent and dark behind a barricade just like this. The only escape from that room was to think of something completely unrelated to his best friend; and since the two of them had become inseparable the minute they started crawling, nothing from before the outbreak was safe. That only left the here and now, with its own uncomfortable problems.

Ellis leaned back with a half-groan, half-sigh. If he had to think of something, it might as well be Nick. Compared to the rest of the fucked-up, bass-ackwards shit in his life, a gay crush on an ex-hitman seemed like kittens and rainbows.

The thought of kittens, at least, made him smile.

Okay, it was clear enough that he had a crush, but the extent was murky, and Ellis was afraid to explore it. He forced himself to analyze certain things, though, and grudgingly admitted some feelings to himself: he admired and respected Nick, wanted to learn from and impress him. He felt safe in the older man's presence, like things really weren't so bad, and that sharp, larger-than-life attitude was a compass-rose that guided him through the chaos of the apocalypse. No matter what, no matter how bloody or tough things got, Nick was still there, still cynical, still wielding that razor wit right along with his rifle. Even the last couple of days, with all their drastic changes, had only solidified his badass anti-hero image. Ellis could relate to him now, and it made his tough-guy act all the more believable.

Satisfied with that aspect of their friendship, Ellis steeled himself to look deeper. He had to acknowledge the deliciously unsettling butterflies he got when Nick looked at him a certain way. It was becoming clear that he got warm and fuzzy when they touched. He was even willing to admit that the kiss he'd run from had felt really, really nice; but there he stopped. Either he felt no real lust for his teammate or he was simply incapable of facing it, and when he mentally backed away from the topic he released a breath he didn't remember holding. It was a relief to leave that can of worms unopened. Besides, it'd just make him start thinking about Keith again... Shit.

Ellis immediately took a deep swig of beer to get himself back on track. The question of what to actually _do_ about the situation remained, and really, it all depended on Nick. If he didn't remember in the morning, the only option was to return to high school. Ellis would keep quiet and wait for a sign that betrayed the conman's intentions. If his inebriated outburst was a fluke, the issue would never come up again, and nobody would be any the wiser.

But if Nick _did_ remember... Ellis winced at the possibilities. He might let it drop, or try to take it further, or go for one of any number of things in between. There was no way to prepare for every contingency. Nevertheless, the mechanic chased ideas around his head until his beer was gone and his shift on guard was over. He pushed all the empty bottles into a corner and gently woke Rochelle, wordlessly squeezing her shoulder as he fell onto the bed she vacated.

 _It's up ta him, I guess,_ he thought as he teetered on the verge of sleep. _It'll be just like in 9 th grade... Droppin' hints but not makin' the first move... Ugh._

He drifted off uneasily, dreaming about the girl he'd tried to win over almost ten years ago. It hadn't really gone that well, come to think of it.

* * *

 

Burning, blinding sunlight lanced through the boarded-up window to rouse Nick with searing agony. A single ray was falling directly on his face, making the inside of his eyelids glow a dull red. Every nerve in his head screamed in pain, and as he curled up to escape the light he groaned miserably.

_What. The fuck. Was I thinking._

He lay there, hurting too badly to move, until crushingly loud footsteps approached him. He winced at every one, huddling into a smaller and smaller bundle. Then the stomping ended, and a soothing hand gently touched his throbbing forehead.

“No coffee, or I'd'a brought ya some. Drink up, now.”

The whisper wasn't loud enough to hurt, and Nick felt the hard plastic curve of a water bottle pressed against his lips. Without opening his eyes he raised his head just an inch, supported by strong fingers, and gratefully sucked down a few mouthfuls of the wonderfully pure liquid.

“We gotta get movin' soon. Y'want me t'help ya up?”

Nick grunted in reply, not clearly a yes or a no, but he latched onto the offered hand with a deathly tight grip. Slowly and painfully, with many reassuring murmurs from his doctor, he sat up.

“Have s'more.”

The water dissolved the cottony feeling in his mouth. After a minute he reached for the bottle himself, and drained it.

“Think y'can eat? I got some stew here, protein's good for hangovers.”

Another grunt and outstretched hand. The meat and potatoes felt disgusting in his upset stomach, but Nick grimly endured the nausea until the nutrients began to ease his morning-after symptoms. He held tight to his medic's wrist the whole time, squeezing hard with every wave of sickness, but heard no complaints. Eventually his grip eased, and the hand was reclaimed by its owner.

“All right, I'll help ya stand, but I ain't gonna help ya piss. We're gonna wait for ya in the den, okay?”

Nick managed a pitiful half-chuckle and slowly began to open his eyes, just a crack. He blamed the hangover for what he saw.

Golden light made a mop of soft curls glow like a halo above Ellis' dirty face. His eyes were sympathetic, shining sapphire blue against the shadows cloaking his cheek, and his mouth was curved in a gently encouraging smile. Altogether the effect reminded Nick of the angels painted behind the altar of his old church, and made his stomach flip-flop in a way that had nothing whatsoever to do with booze. He grimaced, bracing himself on the mechanic's arms to stand.

“Thanks, killer,” he rasped once he'd found his feet.

“Just warnin' you, but Ro's gonna say she told ya so.” Ellis smiled apologetically and left, taking Nick's backpack along to spare him the effort later. The conman squinted after him for a moment before slowly and carefully starting to clean up.

  _Was that a trick of the light, or was he blushing?_

* * *

 

“ _What_ did I tell you? That's the last time I assume you know better about _anything!_ ”

Nick cringed at her voice. “Can you scold me a little less loud, please?”

“Sweet Jesus, a girl could think you've never been hungover before. Suck it up, mister, those zombies won't give a damn about your headache.”

Rochelle shouldered her pack a little more emphatically than was necessary, slamming it against her back rather hard. She was too annoyed to care, though, and kicked an empty bottle on her way out the door.

_We could've used the vodka to make some firebombs, too. But no, somebody had to drink it all and screw himself up too bad to fight!_

A few lazy infected bore the full brunt of her ire as she marched along the dirt road. Not even bothering with her rifle, she ruthlessly dismembered them with her axe before spitting on the pieces and moving on.

“Goddamn, girl. Tell us how ya really feel.” Coach waited until Rochelle had stowed the axe and wiped her bloody hands off before he moved up next to her.

“He just makes me so _mad_! What the hell kind of idiot is he? Now he can't even _shoot_ straight, never mind run or help somebody up. And I _told_ him, I told _all_ of you, explicitly, not to get drunk. Grrah!” She viciously kicked a small rock, sending it flying into the tall grass off the road. “I feel like giving him a curfew and taking away his cell phone. Jesus.”

Coach laughed. “What, you playin' at bein' his momma now? He's a man grown. Think about it, remember all the shit they was tellin' us about? Dude's got a right ta drown his sorrows, just like anyone else.”

“Not when there's other people depending on him! If he's an adult then he should _act_ like one!” Rochelle raised her M16 and mowed down a few infected clustered around a totaled pickup truck. Coach didn't reply until the echoes had subsided.

“I ain't disagreein'. Just try ta understand it from his point a' view. He didn't do it 'cause he knew he'd be a wreck in the mornin', he did it 'cause he couldn't see any other way t'stop hurtin' inside.” He looked over his shoulder to check on the boys. They'd traded guns, presumably because Nick couldn't aim for shit right now so it made better sense for Ellis to snipe. The younger man seemed thrilled with this arrangement.

“You sound like you've got firsthand experience.” Rochelle's voice was coming down from its angry crescendo.

Coach missed a half-step, and a look of profound regret flickered across his face. It was gone so quickly that Rochelle wondered if she had seen it at all.  “When ya got a whole team a' high-school boys all lookin' to ya as a mentor, ya learn some dark shit about people.” He frowned, staring into space. “Like poor Jared Dobson. Dad run off, momma high all the time, mostly lived with his grandparents. Only sixteen, and one a' the oldest people I ever knew. That boy had more sorrows than a man four times his age! Took a year for him t'feel safe openin' up t'me, but... Christ almighty, kid talked about whiskey like it was his best friend.”

They walked in silence for a time. Rochelle would have stared at the ground if she hadn't had to keep an eye out for danger. Instead she surveyed the landscape and shot at any infected that Ellis didn't pick off from behind.

Rolling hills stretched away to the south, looking suspiciously like wheat or cornfields that hadn't been tended in a while. To the north was more of the same, but the horizon was smudged a dark green that extended west into their path. That was the beginning of pine country, and if they stepped lively they'd be there by lunchtime.

A warm breeze played around Rochelle's face as they walked. She barely noticed it, preoccupied with thoughts of Nick. All right, all right, she could understand why he felt the need to drink himself into oblivion; that didn't mean she had to be happy about it. She sullenly tried not to dwell, instead directing her thoughts to the devious little puzzle of Ellis. There was something going on there, something that had begun at the safehouse, and she had a sneaking suspicion that she'd started it in her misguided attempt to make them quit fighting.

 _Maybe the trauma's made them bond somehow, like in war movies. That would explain the protectiveness... and why Nick got all weird when we were arguing... But what about last night?_ She turned the moment over in her head, that tiny instant they both went tense. Coach had mentioned not getting enough sleep...

“Hey, Coach?”

“Mm?”

“The night... I guess night before last. Why didn't you sleep?”

Her companion slowly broke into a wide grin, the kind parents have when their children open Christmas presents. He glanced over his shoulder again, and spoke in a conspiratorial voice.

“Yo' gonna love this. You woke me up for watch, right?”

“Right.”

“Well, I sat on my ass for a couple hours, and then went to go get Nick for his turn... Oh, you ain't gonna _believe_ this...” Had it come from a less dignified man, the sound he made would have been termed a giggle. “Them two was _cuddlin'_! All snuggled up t'gether an' shit, like goddamn newlyweds! I couldn't wake 'em up, they was too cute. Also they'd'a killed me.”

“ _No._ ”

“You bet!”

“Get out!”

“Baby girl, I'd'a taken pictures if I could. Instead I just blocked the door up some more an' slept on the couch.”

Rochelle gaped, all resentment gone, replaced by sheer amusement as little pieces clicked into place. A faint, high-pitched squeal of laughter escaped from behind her hands, which she'd pressed to her mouth in shock; she looked back with shining eyes, and giggled maniacally when she saw that Nick was wearing Ellis' cap to block the sun. The mechanic noticed, and glanced up at her with confusion, but she squeaked and whipped her head back around before he could see her expression. Maybe the stress was finally getting to her, but she was thoroughly entertained.

“Hooo boy...” She fanned herself once she got her voice under control. “Don't ask me what that was. I don't know.”

“It's okay, I had a hard time not laughin' when I saw 'em.”

“But... but...” She started snickering again, the juxtaposition of hitman-Nick and cuddlebunny-Nick too hilarious to suppress. Coach tried to look stern, but failed to stop the smile from creeping across his face.

“Y'know ya can't let on, right? Poor boys'd die of embarrassment!”

That tore it. Rochelle pictured Nick's face red as a tomato, and burst out in hysterics. Coach couldn't hold back once she started, and worked his way up to a full-throated roar of laughter that filled the cerulean sky.

Behind them Nick winced at the noise and stopped, just barely keeping from covering his ears. Ellis got the feeling that he was being mocked, and frowned ahead at their teammates with a sulky pout. He didn't stay that way for long, though; the merriment was infectious, and soon he was chuckling, too. Even Nick nearly forgot his headache when he peeked out from under the brim of his hat and saw Ellis grinning in the Alabama sun.

Once the too-loud merriment subsided, the gambler noted with relief that the fresh air and near total lack of zombies did wonders for his affliction. Even the bright light wasn't so bad, once Ellis insisted that he wear that stupid trucker cap. It took a couple of hours, but soon he wasn't praying for death anymore.

When he could focus on things other than his own misery, he noticed that the kid was acting funny again. Not traumatized-funny like the other day, though. He wasn't silently depressed anymore, but he wasn't his usual boisterous self, either. Ellis walked along cheerfully, occasionally humming something upbeat, but checking himself before getting very loud. Each time he'd glance over at Nick, as if to make sure the music wasn't aggravating. A miniscule worry would tug the corners of his eyes into anxious lines, and a quick flush darted across his cheeks before he looked away.

_Great, what the hell did I do now?_

Nick couldn't think too hard about what kind of shit his wasted self might have pulled last night. It hurt his head. Instead he enjoyed the Keith-less quiet and focused on putting one foot in front of the other, making damn sure to stay far back from Rochelle and her fury. The wide dirt road gradually degraded into parallel tire tracks, and stopped entirely at a rough wooden fence that ran perpendicular to it as far as they could see in either direction. On the other side of the fence was some high grass, and a few hundred meters beyond that stood the edge of a pine forest.

“I got a feelin' it'd be smart to go north 'til we can see the highway, so we got a landmark to follow,” Coach said when the four of them gathered together. “When we're through those woods it should be on our right, if we're headin' west, an' it'll take us straight to Montgomery.”

“Let's get under the trees first,” Ellis suggested, squinting at the sky. “Been gettin' hot, walkin' in the sun all mornin', an' it'll be even worse soon. I could stand some shade.”

“All in favor?” Rochelle raised a hand, and shrugged when none of the men voiced opposition. “Hiking it is.”

They squirmed under, over, and through the fence according to their respective athletic conditions and tromped through the waist-high grass. The cool shade under the trees was a blessing, one that Nick was particularly grateful for. Ellis' hat was nice and all, but the less ambient light, the better. He stayed as far away from the treeline as he could while they paralleled the fence, keeping an eye on their somewhat darker flank. Miraculously there still weren't any zombies to worry about, and as the day wore on the conman started to feel more like his usual self.

“Anybody hungry yet?” he asked when the sun was straight overhead. “This food'll be a lot easier to carry once we've eaten it.”

Rochelle seemed like she'd forgiven him for his earlier lapse in judgment. As they ate she kept looking at him with a devious smile, eyes darting to Ellis and back like she was watching a tennis match. Nick, further revived by the lunch break, watched her suspiciously and wondered what the hell she'd been laughing about that make her attitude change so fast. He was distracted enough not to notice that Ellis was looking at him askance, too.

All afternoon they followed the fence north. It was a beautiful day for a hike; dappled shade and filtered sunlight played over the dense carpet of dry needles, the air was warm, and they were far enough into Nowheresville to avoid the infected altogether. A soft hush, unbroken by birdsong, filled the woods – the only sound was the quiet swish of their footsteps. It was peaceful, a precious moment to relax and forget about the hell that had become of civilization. The survivors walked in bittersweet silence, relishing it, wishing the whole world could go back to being like this.

Nick let the atmosphere fill him, blow all his thoughts away with the gentle breeze and erase the last clinging pains of his headache. For the first time in years, he felt something approaching peace.

Golden light sharply illuminated the landscape to the east as the sun began to set. From their place in the darkening woods the group looked out, past the treeline, and saw a shadowless world of crisp edges gilded by late afternoon heat. It was unreal, breathtaking in its clarity, and they unconsciously slowed their pace to admire it. Ellis found himself at Nick's side, eyes locked on the beauty before them. Without thinking he let his hand drop; open, inviting, begging to be taken.

The conman wasn't thinking, either. In his calm state he was aware of his surroundings, yet serenely detached from them as well. Zen-like, his body acted in accordance with his simplest desires; and in that instant he desired nothing more than to share the moment with someone. He reached out and laced his fingers through the mechanic's.

An electric thrill surged through Ellis' body - he hadn't realized where his hand was. He tensed up, jumping a little and whipping his head around to see what had happened.

Nick's trance was broken by the unexpected reaction. He turned away from the golden fields, startled; and what he saw brought all his agonized thoughts back with a vengeance.

Ellis' face. That expression. He'd seen it before - shock, confusion, embarrassment; but no anger. Just terror: fear of the new, fear of the unknown. The kid was afraid... to enjoy what was going on.

Pieces of Nick's mind clicked back into place.

It all came back in a rush, and it must have shown in his eyes because suddenly Ellis tried to run away. Nick immediately tightened his grip, schooled his face into blankness, and turned back to the sunset's eastern echo, desperately trying to not do anything stupid. There would be time for stupid later. For now it was enough to stand together in silence, sharing the first stars as the forest faded to black.


	7. Chapter 7

“Awright, we ain't got four walls an' a roof this time,” Coach sighed after a dinner of cold Chef Boyardee. He'd chosen to ignore the younger men's odd behavior, figuring it would be better for his health if he didn't comment on their resumed hand-holding activities. “We gonna split inta two shifts a' two t'night, since we got more directions t'keep an eye on. Who's on first?”

“What's on second, and I-dunno's on third,” Nick quipped, “but _I'm_ going to sleep.” He gave Ellis a tiny glance, as though he expected the mechanic to follow. Ellis scuffed at the dry needles with one steel-guarded toe.

“I'll stay up, I ain't tired yet. Ro?”

The plaintive edge to his inquiry got all of Rochelle's protective instincts going again. She felt a slight tightening of her throat, the foreboding signal that meant somebody was in trouble and needed to have a Talk with Auntie Ro.

“You get some rest, Coach, we'll wake you up later.”

Relief eased some tension out of Ellis' shoulders, but he got a little queasy, too. Nick obviously wanted them to be on watch together, and for some reason it felt wrong to wish otherwise. There would be other nights, though; right now, the young man needed some advice. He gave the journalist an embarrassed, thankful glance.

“Fine. See y'all in a few hours.” Their leader futilely tried to arrange his backpack into a more comfortable pillow, then gave up and rested his bald head on the ground. Nick's unreadable eyes flickered between the others before he too lay down, cushioned by the jacket of his suit.

Ellis and Rochelle sat back-to-back, leaning against one another to peer into the dark columned woods. They were silent for a time, listening as their teammates' breathing evened out. The men's snores – Nick's occasional, Coach's strong – were the only audible sounds for a good long while. Rochelle was burning with questions, but knew better than to pry. Ellis would come forward when he felt safe, which turned out to be sooner than she expected.

“Ro?” His shoulderblades shifted slightly against her back.

“Mmhmm?”

“I got a... Dunno if it's a _problem_ , exactly. But’cha said I can talk to ya, right?”

“Of course, sweetie. What's wrong?” Rochelle realized with chagrin that she was adopting the same tone she used with her young nephews; but Ellis didn't seem to mind, and she was breathlessly anticipating his next words.

“Um, well... 'S kinda 'mbarassin' actually... But I dunno what t'do...” He squirmed a bit more. “It's about Nick. He's... I'm... I think I got a crush-” Rochelle exercised all her self-control to keep from giggling again. “-an' he's been actin' like... Dear Lord, he's remindin' me a' Keith. It's freakin' me out.”

That was unexpected. Rochelle's eyebrow migrated halfway up to her hairline before she replied.

“How on earth can a self-centered, manipulative sleazeball remind you of your lunatic best friend?” Ellis' broad shoulders drooped a little, and he hung his head enough that hers tipped back against it.

“'Lunatic.' Sounds 'bout right,” he mumbled, and took a deep breath. “We were basically brothers, y'know? Near since the day we were born – since I was born, really, he's... was... 'bout three years older'n me – nothin' kept us apart. Drove our moms nuts, ain't neither of 'em bargained on havin' _two_ little spitfires runnin' around. Hell, we musta had more nights sleepin' over each other's houses than we did at our own. Until high school, what with girls an' all. Y'see he's real popular with the ladies 'cuz he's tall an' watchamacallit... wiry. An’ he likes havin' his hair all shaggy. An' all the crazy shit he did just got himself attention. I was his wingman for a lot of it, an' I'd drive him ta the hospital all the time... Hell, sometimes I _was_ the hospital. Kept first aid in my truck 'cause I knew he'd always need somethin' stitched up.”

Rochelle smiled as the young man's voice went misty with nostalgia. She let her eyes roam the dark woods, now spotted with silver as the moon rose; but in her mind she saw the outskirts of Savannah, and two loose cannons in a pickup truck with a horde of women swooning after them. She only managed not to laugh because an uncomfortable tone rapidly crept into the story.

“So anyways, one time, his ladyfriend left him 'cuz she was pissed he lost her birthday present... He was goin' ta her place for the party, an' decided t’ bring her a gator, y'know, t'impress her? Obviously he didn't catch one, an' he lost the necklace he got her, an' she kicked him out. He calls me an' tells me ta come ta the lake. So I drive on out there an' he's swimmin', y'know, t'get the mud off. I sit on the dock an' he comes an' sits next ta me, an' I swear ta God he ain't got a stitch on. An' he's tellin' me all this shit 'bout women an' how they're crazy bitches – uh, no offense, this was him talkin' – hell, an' then he... he was sayin' like how I'm his best friend, an' I'd never throw him out – which is true, I never would – an' apparently he'd had some kinda... somethin'... for me for like, three years, an' at this point I'm nineteen, so he's twenty-two, an' there he goes confessin' this shit, an'… an’ he _kissed_ me!”

Ellis trembled noticeably now, the memories painful to bring up and clearly bittersweet. Rochelle resisted the urge to turn around and hug him; that usually drove away men of a certain age, and she was absolutely desperate to hear more. It came of being in the news. She wanted the whole story.

“I didn't know what t'do. It was like, what the hell, yer my _brother_! Only it weren't all bad, I... I kinda liked it.” His blush was practically audible. “But I freaked out anyway. I didn't wanna lose my best friend, y'know? Like in tenth grade, I asked out one a' my friends an' she never talked ta me again. I didn't want that ta happen with Keith. I told him so, an' he never said another thing about it... but after that I could see the way he looked at me. Took him a while ta get another girlfriend, too. I think I really hurt him.” He fell awkwardly silent.

“Oh, honey...” Rochelle reached back with the hand not cradling her rifle to sympathetically squeeze Ellis' arm. She wasn't sure asking a question would be prudent, but the mechanic did not continue and after a few seconds she decided that a gentle prompt was necessary. “Why does Nick remind you of that?”

“'S the same damn thing,” Ellis muttered. “I got a friend I don't wanna lose. Keith had the hots for me back then... Now I think Nick wants me, an' I dunno what ta do. It ain't fair!”

Rochelle's brain went into panic mode, processing information and spitting out possibilities with the speed that had gotten her ahead in the journalism business; but it wasn't making sense yet. She needed more data.

“What makes you think Nick's got a crush on you? You've both had some severe shocks to the system recently, are you sure you're not overreacting?”

Ellis sighed. “No. No, I ain't sure. But'chu pretty much know the same as me he's been actin' funny. An' the worst part is... Even if he don't swing that way, I think... I think I'm startin' to. A little. It's scarin' me.” He shrank into a little ball, hugging his knees to his chest. “ _He_ went an' kissed me last night. He was drunk as shit, but it was just like that time on the dock. I liked it... but I don't wanna ruin what we got. 'Specially now we finally ain't tryin' ta kill each other all the damn time.”

A weird combination of feelings pulsed through Rochelle's spine. Sympathy and the desire to help, of course; but she was also bizarrely amused, maybe even delighted, by the idea of those two running around as a couple – it was _hilarious_! And then she was ashamed and guilty for even thinking such things. The poor boy needed guidance, not a cheering spectator.

“Have you talked to _him_ about this?”

“Aw, _hell_ no! If I'm wrong it'll fuck everythin' up! 'S why I'm talkin' ta you first. There's gotta be a way ta figure out what he's thinkin', right? Ain't girls s'posed ta be good at that shit?”

Rochelle laughed quietly. “Ellis, honey, I'm flattered you think I can read his mind, but you're overestimating my feminine wiles. That man spent his _life_ hiding his thoughts from people. All I've got are guesses, same as you, and it sounds like you've got a lot more information.”

“Oh.”

“Let me tell you one thing, though – you mean a lot to him. He cares about you, sweetie, and I'll bet it doesn't matter if he thinks of you as a friend, brother... lover... whatever. You can talk to him about it and it won't ruin anything.” Rochelle smiled, up through the shaggy branches overhead to the multitude of stars dusted across the visible patches of sky. “Besides... In a best-case scenario, what do _you_ want?”

Silence for a moment.

“How d'ya know?”

“Hm?”

“That he cares. Why'd ya say that so sure if all ya got are guesses?”

“Let's call that one an _educated_ guess. We were arguing a couple of nights ago, and...” She smirked, remembering another conversation. “It's 'not my place ta go spreadin' around,' I suppose. You've just got to trust me.”

More silence.

“Ellis?”

“No.”

“Huh?”

“No, I don't know what I want. 'S what’cha were gonna ask, right?”

“Uh... right.” Rochelle blinked, concerned. “I really think you should talk to him, though. You wanted my advice? There it is. You'll never get anywhere without decent communication.”

Ellis chuckled humorlessly. “Says the woman. I ain't never met a girl who'd talk straight 'bout relationships.”

“Well, honey, that's just it.” Rochelle tried and failed to keep a giggle out of her voice, thoroughly pleased with the young man's choice of words. “What you're getting into isn't straight!”

She promptly fell over backwards as Ellis sprang to his feet. His cheeks were almost red enough to glow in the darkness, and his jaw worked as he desperately tried to come up with a response.

“I... you... wh...”

Rochelle laughed up at him from her position on the ground. The mortified mechanic gave up attempting to speak, and grumpily stomped away to the other side of their little camp. He plunked himself down by a tree and leaned against it, glaring into the night, getting sap all over the back of his shirt in the process.

When she could stop snickering Rochelle stood up, brushed the pine needles out of her hair, and rejoined her melancholy young friend. She knelt by his side and threw an arm around his shoulders. He didn't flinch away, which was a good sign.

“Come on, baby, lighten up a little,” she cajoled. “I'm sorry if I was out of line. Is that part of what's making you uncomfortable? Sometimes I forget how it is outside the blue states.”

Ellis cringed and turned his burning face from her. Rochelle knew she'd hit a nerve, and sighed. She sat cross-legged and leaned forward, elbows on her knees, supporting her chin in her hands.

“Ellis, it's all right. Talk to me. I promise not to make any more gay jokes, okay?”

The tips of his ears were dark pink against the white mesh of his hat, which he'd recovered from Nick once the sun went down. Rochelle felt horrible for driving him away, and mentally kicked herself for the crude pun. She refused to give up, though, and just sat for a while, scanning the woods. Next to her, Ellis was agonizing so hard that she imagined she could hear the whirring and clicking of gears in his head. At this point she resigned herself to damage control; having apparently failed to provide the help he was looking for, Rochelle merely hoped to keep the young man from spiraling into depression again.

“God ain't here.” His flat statement startled the reporter from her own ruminations.

“Uh, what?”

“He ain't. Leastways, not the God I grew up with.” Ellis' posture relaxed into a slump, though he did not turn to look at his companion. “That God, He'd never've let any a' this happen. The infection, the zombies, all the killin'... That ain't the work a' any merciful bein'. No way.”

“Honey...” Rochelle barely began to whisper, but Ellis was only getting started.

“An' if He ain't what they told me He was, maybe there's other stuff that's not true, either. We've been killin' an' stealin' for weeks now, an' I can't think it ain't right no more 'cause what the hell else we gonna do out here? I ain't gonna lay down an' die 'cause Jesus said ta turn the other cheek. Them monsters'd just rip _both_ of 'em outta yer face!” He was obviously fighting tears, but stared stonily into the forest without letting any spill. “I figure now, buncha them as used ta be sins ain't anymore. Out here it _can't_ be a sin ta love somebody. Just can't. Don't matter who. We ain't got much right ta be picky, do we? An' if we're the only ones left...”

“No, Ellis, sweetie, don't think that...”

“...if we are, then ain't nobody gonna stand up on Sundays an' tell us it's wrong!” His fists were clenched into the ground, dirt welling up between his shaking fingers. Rochelle heard – no, _felt_ the pain in his voice. Ellis was losing his faith.

She put her hand on his shoulder and squeezed, gently, just to remind him that she was there. He was a pitiful sight, but there was a hard fire burning in his eyes. It mirrored the one he got when they fought for their lives, when the horde descended upon them and it was kill or be killed.

“Screw it,” he whispered. “Just screw it. Pastor Hammond's dead.” Finally, reluctantly, he met her eyes. “Y'all are what I got now. I love ya like family, Ro, an' I love Coach an' Nick too...”

Rochelle's grip tightened imperceptibly, matching the tightness in her throat. “Ellis...”

“...But I still dunno what I want outta all this.” His lips twitched in a sad little half-smile. “I guess that's the problem now, ain't it?”

Wordlessly Rochelle brushed back his hat and leaned in to plant a kiss on his forehead. She could taste the salt from the day's sweat, and feel the worried creases in his skin deepen at the touch of her lips. She yearned to hug him up and let him cry it all out, like she did when her youngest nephew got upset; but Ellis was no eight-year-old, and he was doing his damnedest to keep his face dry. Instead she resettled his cap over those thick curls with an extra, caring little ruffle.

“You'll figure it out.”

* * *

 

Coach stretched for what felt like the tenth time, regretting his decision to double up on watch. There just didn't seem to be any infected out here in the backcountry to keep watch _for_ , and he'd just as soon get the extra rest. Gingerly he twisted his back, feeling little pops all along his spine. Yeah, he missed regular beds already.

Nick stalked back and forth, rifle over his shoulder, on the surface every inch the professional sentry. Coach kept an eye on him, though, and soon noticed an odd pattern to his behavior. Every time the conman passed Ellis' sleeping form he would slow, eyes stuck on the youngster’s face for the three seconds it took to move away. Then he'd reach the end of his patrol, about-face, and repeat the process, brow furrowed in thought. Coach chuckled to himself.

“Son, you got somethin' on yo' mind.”

Nick, startled, very nearly tripped over a root. A flicker of shame rapidly vanished under his defensive poker face.

“What's it to you, big man?”

“For one thing, if I surprised ya, wouldja even notice if any zombies showed up?” Coach leaned against a tree and crossed his arms, amused only because the infected had been leaving them alone recently. Had there actually been a clear and present danger, he'd have snapped that young'un back to reality so fast...

Nick opened his mouth to retaliate, then closed it with a frown. He stared off into the woods for a moment, then back at the sleeping mechanic. Just when it seemed like he'd gotten lost in space again, he spoke.

“Do you have any kids?”

Coach was slightly taken aback by the question, and grimaced.

“Not... exactly. Why?”

The conman's eyes flashed keenly at him, and Coach knew that soon it would be his turn to 'fess up. But before he could wince at the prospect, Nick turned away. Only a shadowed sliver of his face was visible as he whispered to the darkness in a voice as strained as it was quiet.

“I need to know what it's like... to lose one. If it's normal to feel like this.”

“Feel like what, exactly?” Coach pushed himself away from the tree, stepped carefully around Rochelle, and planted himself next to Nick. He gazed out into the forest as neutrally as he could, keeping a firm rein on his instinctual reactions. There was always more to the story.

Ellis and Rochelle didn't snore, so the silence was very nearly complete. Nick struggled to speak and Coach waited patiently, knowing from long experience how difficult it must be for him – more so, now that the gambler didn't have a supporting hand to hold.

“Rebecca was the only person on the planet I gave a damn about,” Nick finally said through gritted teeth. “I ignored the hole she left for years. Now suddenly I get stuck with this idiot redneck and he's filled it in. Why? Why _him_ , for fuck's sake? Is it just because he's the one who got me thinking about what I lost?”

Coach maintained a calm appearance in spite of the heavy emotions settling in his chest. He could empathize, to a degree; but more than anything he wanted his team to be on top of their game so they'd all have a shot at getting out of here alive. And if that meant counseling an assassin about relationships, well... So be it.

“What do you want from him, son? Whaddaya think he's gonna do ta help ya heal yo'self?”

Nick growled deep in the back of his throat, making Coach raise his gun to fight before he realized there wasn't a hunter around. What the conman said next, though, was even more chilling.

“Everything, Coach. I want everything.”

A deadly ice entered Coach's voice, and Nick instantly regretted opening his mouth.

"Now just what are you meanin' t'say, son? You best think real hard, now."

So he did.

He felt Ellis' head on his shoulder, sobbing; he pictured Ellis grinning in the sun; he remembered the admiration in Ellis' eyes when they looted the shed; he imagined Ellis' lips melting softly against his own. Nick compared himself to the empty, pointlessly cruel drifter he'd been just a few short weeks ago, and knew what had made the difference.

"I need him, big man, and hear me out," he said, taking a half-step away from the so-close-to-furious papa bear next to him. "You remember I said I've changed, well, it's his fault. He's the one I've started caring about. Fuck if I know why. He's…  _fixing_  me, for lack for a better word. Fixing what the Patriarca broke." Nick stopped there, struggling to keep his face smooth. Certain other of his…  _desires_ … were probably best kept private.

"Uh-huh," Coach grunted sarcastically. "An' how's that any better? From what’chu told us, you were a fucked-up bastard even  _before_  the fire."

Nick scoffed mirthlessly, voice wry and cold.

"They broke me a long time before that, Coach."

The men surveyed the forest, each absorbed in his own troubles. Quietly, gradually, the tension eased out of the atmosphere. Nick resumed the train of thought he'd been on before he was interrupted, carefully detangling possessiveness from affection and lust from… what,  _love_? The word barely had meaning to him anymore. He snorted gently, an offhand dismissal of the whole stupid thing. Shit, Cupid could probably shoot him in the ass and he still wouldn't get it. It had been so long…

"Be careful." Nick managed to not jump this time. Coach's voice was low - warning, but also granting permission. "I know you're holdin' shit back, but it'd take a Hail Mary to get it outta you. Just make damn sure that when you got yo' 'everything,' there's still enough of Ellis left for him."

Even unspoken, the threat was enough to make the air go cold and brittle as skim ice. Nick shivered before he could stop himself, and focused all the harder on the uncaring foliage around them – was the sky getting lighter? He forced a calm breath through his lungs before answering.

"Take it easy, big guy. The kid's safe with me."

Once again the stupid little  _something_  curled around his gut, spiking tingles up his neck and spreading an electric buzz down below his hips. It was all Nick could do to keep from moaning aloud.

_Define 'safe…'_


	8. Chapter 8

Another beautiful day dawned on the travelers, a little humid but perfectly cloudless. Owing to the reduced sleep schedule, they lazed about for a while before breaking camp. They tended their weapons and tallied supplies, all rather more quietly than usual - but obviously everyone was just tired. Nothing to be concerned about.

They finally got underway around ten, judging by the sun. Movement woke up their muscles and loosened their tongues, and eventually a cheerful conversation overcame the heavy silence.

“How much longer will we be going north?” Rochelle asked, weaving through a tight clump of trees. Coach answered her with a light sigh.

“Long enough that we’ll be campin’ out again t’night. After that? Maybe half a day ‘fore we can see the highway.”

“Oh man, I am _so_ makin’ a fire,” Ellis exclaimed, eyes lighting up. “We can sit around an’ roast marshmallows an’ tell scary stories an'…”

“We’re _living_ a scary story, hotshot,” interrupted Nick with a smirk. “Or hadn't you noticed?”  The mechanic wasn’t discouraged in the slightest.

“Yeah, but we only got zombies! I know one ‘bout a haunted lighthouse…”

“Ex _cuse_ me? If there’s one thing we don’t need, it’s more horror shit,” Coach declared firmly. “If I see you holdin’ yo' flashlight under your face all spooky-like I will shove it up yo’ ass, got me?” Ellis’ face fell, but the older man grew a sly smile. “Makin’ s’mores, though… You won’t hear an argument outta me 'bout that!”

Rochelle laughed as the two Georgians grinned in anticipation, and Nick’s eyes twinkled mischievously.

“How did I know you’d be on board with that plan, Coach?”

The old footballer turned on him in mock outrage, making the two younger survivors laugh even harder as Nick dodged playful swipes at his head.

The fence they were following turned back east in the early afternoon, so the group oriented themselves to the treeline and the sun instead. They chatted as they walked, each reassured by the apparent good mood of the others. Personal concern, agonizing, and deliberation faded to the background. Save for the impressive arsenal they carried, they could have been any old group of friends out for a pleasant hike.

Sunset began to threaten with longer shadows and reddening light. Eager to “do this camp-out _right_ ,” Ellis called a halt so he could gather firewood before dark. Nobody much minded, and at Rochelle’s insistence the other men unpacked enough food to create a proper hot meal. Meanwhile the mechanic used his beloved FUBAR to break up some branches, and quickly amassed quite a large pile of fuel. He even managed to find a few maple logs, to keep the flames alive for longer than twenty minutes. Coach took appropriate precautions, clearing the area of pine needles to prevent things from getting out of hand. With all the soft, dry timber available, it was going to be one hell of a blaze.

Grinning gleefully, their young pyromaniac built up the fire and lit the kindling. Sap sparked and fizzed as it caught, and with incredible speed the whole pile began to roar. Ellis carefully prodded and poked with his weapon until the configuration was satisfactory, then sat back and took out his utility knife.

“Nick, Ro, y’all gonna want some?” he asked excitedly as he began to whittle down a stick. The orange light flickered on his face, and cast shadows from every muscle in his arms. The gambler made a show of thinking, just to tease, but his mind was already made up. The more branches the kid had to clean up, the longer his bicep would flex like that.

“Eh, fuck it. Deal me in.”

Ellis looked up from his work to smile broadly at the conman. They locked eyes for barely an instant, but it was long enough for the gaze to grow hotter than their campfire before the younger man resumed his labor. Nick swallowed and stared into the flames, grateful that the reddish light hid the flush in his cheeks.

While cans of stew and Spaghetti-Os heated in the coals they tortured themselves by discussing what they’d rather be eating instead. Coach wistfully expressed desire for baked potatoes and wiener dogs, drawing an appreciative groan from Ellis and a disgusted face from Nick. Rochelle detailed a camping recipe for chicken parmesan that could be made in a tinfoil packet. Nick - after considerable coaxing - reluctantly described the best risotto he’d ever had, which made them all even hungrier than they already were. Ellis was comparing the merits of mac-and-cheese versus mom’s baked ham when their actual dinner finished cooking. It wasn’t anywhere close to delicious, but the canned slop tasted much better heated up. They wolfed down their rations, careful not to burn themselves on the searing metal.

“Awright, y’all, she’s ready!” Ellis declared when the heart of the flames showed hints of blue and white. The tall, bright orange streamers had died down to a slower, hotter burn, letting the night in a little closer around their camp. The mechanic passed out slender pointed sticks and ripped open a plastic bag full of puffy white marshmallows. He selected two, then passed the rest to Coach. The older man immediately impaled one and took two for later, and Rochelle followed suit. Nick was perfectly happy to pass the bag right back to Ellis, but the kid fixed him with a look that made his heart double back on itself. Somewhere between pleading and disappointment, those wounded blue eyes very clearly wondered why the gambler didn’t want any dessert.

 _Oh, go on,_ part of his mind urged. _You did ask for the stick. Just one, at least?_

Without looking away, the conman reached into the bag and extracted a single marshmallow. Ellis’ face instantly took on a joyful expression, and his attention returned to his own sugary victims.

Nick contemplated the object in his hand for a moment. He’d never liked food that was _too_ sweet, and these fucking things were 99% high fructose corn syrup. But it made the mechanic happy, so…

_Eh, it’s worth a shot._

He carefully pierced through the cylindrical confection and mimicked what he saw the others doing. It didn’t seem that hard, just holding the stick and turning it every so often. Coach withdrew his from the flame when the formerly white marshmallow went pale gold and puffy.  Rochelle and Ellis cooked theirs for a little longer, until the poor things were thoroughly browned and blistered out of shape. Nick observed how they ate them, too. It seemed that the darker the skin, the more likely it was to slip right off and leave a molten glob of sugar behind…

“Watch out!”

Ellis grabbed the stick out of his hands and started to blow furiously on the fireball that had previously been Nick’s marshmallow. When he put it out he returned the implement, chuckling at the carbonized lump at the end.

“Whew, man. Didn’t think ya’d like ‘em that way. Kinda expected ya’d make ‘em perfect every time. Just pay attention ta the fire, okay?” The mechanic settled back down as Coach and Rochelle laughed quietly.

Nick stared at his charred dessert, wondering where his focus had gone to keep him from noticing that it had started to burn. With a sigh he started to push the immolated glob off his stick, and swore as he promptly scorched himself.

“ _T_ _its_!” He put the affected fingers in his mouth to cool down. Ellis glanced away from his second sugary sacrifice, and grinned at him.

“ _Oh_! Ain’t never done this before, have ya?” he whispered so as to keep the humiliating fact private – not that it was at all effective. Nick masked his embarrassment with a disgruntled look as Coach and Rochelle chuckled to themselves.

“So what?” he grumbled.

“ _So,_ I’ll show ya!” Ellis scooched himself over and brought the bag along. “It’s real simple, ya prob'ly just weren’t payin’ attention. First thing: don’t’cha go touchin’ what’s still hot.” He didn’t include a disparaging nickname, but the chiding tone he adopted was almost as bad. Nick felt anger welling up inside, and the urge to dismiss the whole activity as stupid and childish; but then Ellis touched his hands, guiding them to the right place on the stick, and it all evaporated in the giddy spark of contact.

“This here’s the best spot, right over the coals, see? Ya get the most heat an’ the most control.” The young man gently grasped Nick’s hands again, positioning them so the newly mounted marshmallow hung in what was essentially a miniature oven. The gambler almost whined when Ellis drew back – he was more interested in the rough caress of his fingers than the lesson – but had enough self-control to merely nod and hold the damn thing steady.

“Now ya watch it real close. See where it’s gettin’ gold, there, on that side? Turn it so it all gets cooked even.”

Nick peered at it, nearly blinded by the heat of the coals, and saw the slight color change. With smooth movements of his wrist he rotated it, and almost immediately another part started to caramelize.

“Good! Yer gonna get the feel for it real quick. Use the color ta judge how much heat is gettin’ to it on each side, an’ ya move it if… Heh, like that. Pull it out.”

Chagrined, Nick yanked another flaming mess out of the fire. This one he blew out himself, and waited before cleaning off the tip. It wasn’t as badly burned as the first, and the blackened sheath easily slid away to reveal a sticky white core.

“Ya could eat that, if ya want,” Ellis suggested. “Keith always liked ‘em that way. But I'm thinkin' that was more ‘cause he was impatient, y’know? Didn’t wanna do it right, just heat ‘em an’ eat ‘em.”

Nick shook his head with a smirk, and finished wiping off his stick. The end result didn’t interest him – the process, however, did. Ellis talked like roasting was an art form, something that required finesse to be mastered. Nick couldn’t resist the challenge.

It only took three more marshmallows to produce something the conman felt was “perfect.” Ellis looked on, proud and impressed, as Nick displayed a treat that was evenly gold on all sides, including the ends, and heated through so well that it was nearly melting off the stick. Delicately he slid it off, leaving no sticky residue on the wood this time.

“That wasn’t so hard,” he said wryly, and dismissively offered it up on his palm. Ellis shook his head, grinning.

“Hell no, man. You made it, don’t’cha wanna eat it?”

Nick looked down at his creation with a grimace, but Ellis was watching him in eager expectation. Just one, right? All he had to do was put it in his mouth. And if it made the kid happy...

_Here goes nothing._

A tiny moan escaped him as every pleasure center in his brain lit up like the Vegas Strip. Wafer-thin walls crunched open to release a thick, semi-liquid heaven that filled his mouth and coated his throat with warmth. His eyelids fluttered uncontrollably until he shut them, blissfully sliding his tongue through the slippery-sticky sugar. No, not merely sugar – it had transcended the earthly label. This was pure ambrosia, and he reveled in it.

When he swallowed and opened his eyes they were all three looking at him, faces twisted in desperate attempts not to laugh. Nick immediately got himself together. He stuck out his hand, glared, and practically snarled his demand.

“Gimme the goddamn bag.”

* * *

 

Night overtook the camp slowly, dancing with the flames until smoldering coals were all that remained. Embers glowed sullenly from under the ashes and a million stars twinkled through the canopy overhead, but all that sugar had done its job - Nick couldn't sleep. Oddly enough the jitters were a boon rather than a burden, because Ellis volunteered for first watch again; so moonrise saw the two of them hunkered down across the dying fire, awkwardly avoiding each other's eyes until their teammates were slumbering soundly.

With Coach's regular, ragged snores gently tearing the silence, both younger men felt the icy claws of apprehension drag down their backs. Ellis shivered and tried to voice the question that had been shunted to the side for two days, but the breath caught in his throat. Nick, barely able to keep from tapping his foot with nervous energy, noticed the mechanic's uncomfortable shift. The remains of the fire cast a hot, intimate light on the young man's face and gave rise to enticingly mysterious shadows around his edges; altogether the effect was darkly seductive.  The gambler couldn't bear the thought of driving Ellis away – he began drumming his fingers anxiously – but he now knew exactly what he wanted, and tonight was the perfect opportunity to go for it. To make a move. To be a complete idiot.

Ellis cleared his throat, and tried once more to ask his question. He kept his eyes fixed on the coals for fear of being paralyzed by the look on Nick's face. Hell, he was awfully close to being paralyzed all by himself.

“Nick..? Uh, could I ask ya somethin'?”

“You just did, kiddo.” The conman's nerves screwed up a little tighter, but it was nothing compared to the effect his low, rough voice had on Ellis. The young man gulped visibly.

“Uh... um, right. Heh.” _Gitchore self t'gether, man! Ya ain't fourteen no more. Jesus._ “Lissen, I been... yer kinda... Yer confusin' me.”

Nick snorted softly. “Look who's talking,” he muttered, mostly to himself. Ellis heard anyway, and looked up with his head quirked slightly to the side.

“Whaddaya mean?”

“Nope. After you, ace. You were saying?” Nick's eyes glowed with heat – whether internal or from the fire was impossible to tell. The southerner quickly looked down again before he lost his voice.

“Well, ya... ya confound me some. For, like, a month ya been kickin' me around an' hatin' on me, callin' me names an' shit... Not that ya done anythin' really bad. Hell, ya save my life every fuckin' day, just about! But then I get hit in the head an' talk in my sleep, an' alluva sudden yer a whole different person.” Ellis shifted uncomfortably and scratched the back of his neck, a nervous tic the conman instantly noted. “Now don't get me wrong, I ain't complainin' that ya ain't kickin' my ass no more, but I dunno what ta do 'bout this… this _other_ shit.” He frowned, composing the next part of his speech. Nick kept his voice absolutely dead to hide the tingling energy that suffused his body. He had to figure out exactly where Ellis stood.

“What other shit?”

The mechanic gave a nervous laugh. “Fuck, man, you know better'n me! The... the hand-holdin', well, I can understand that one, we were both pretty messed up an' it don't mean nothin' – uh, well, it might mean somethin', I dunno, but it don't have to...” The kid's awkward backpedaling made Nick want to smile. “...An' I guess the cuddlin's kinda my fault, I just didn't wanna be alone after... after the house. Ya understand, right?” Ellis shuddered a bit, remembering the bloody massacre, and a pleading note entered his voice.

Nick's heart pinched with recollection. “Yeah. Don't think about it, El.”

The corner of the mechanic's mouth briefly twitched upwards at the sound of his nickname, but immediately resumed its worried frown. “But then... Oh, Lord. I know ya were drunk when ya... But that ain't the point, the point is what'cha said, that it's true when yer sober, too, an' I dunno what’cha meant when ya said yer missin' somethin', an' ya... ya _need_ me? I don't get it, man. Need me for what?” His fingers were shaking a bit when he finished, too scared to mention the real heart of the matter.

Nick pieced together his response with extreme caution. How far was too far? How many white lies would he need to coax the southerner into revealing more? How honest could he be without alienating the kid for good?

He sighed.

“Ellis... I'm not sure myself of how you fit in with Rebecca. That's where it started - you got me thinking about her again.” He raised a hand to cut off the mechanic's apology. “You reopened a wound I thought was scarred over, but I'm starting to think it's a good thing, like a disinfection. In the last few days I've come to accept some shit I've been ignoring for years, and it's... fuck, it's a relief. I need you to finish the job, because in spite of the zombies, the running, everything... I feel better now than I think I have in a long time.” He didn't have to force his smile, seeing a hopeful amazement in the young man's face. It apparently hadn't taken much embellishing to get the kid out of his terrified little knot.

Ellis felt a warm swell in his chest at the sight of Nick's softened expression. “R... really?”

“Really, kiddo.”

“Oh.” He thought for a moment, anxiously chewing at his lip in a way that made the conman's loins twitch. The urge was quashed mercilessly – it wasn't time yet.

“You got more to say?”

“Uh. Yeah. I guess I do.” Ellis released a worried breath, took off his hat and fidgeted with it. “About when ya... ya kissed me?” he half-asked, blushing.

Nick's pulse skyrocketed, and he desperately tried to play it cool. “I believe you said it never happened,” he replied smoothly, with a hint of coy tease.

“Didn't think yer drunk ass'd remember in the mornin',” the southerner muttered. “But since ya do, did it... Did it mean anythin'?”

There was a very pregnant pause.

“I guess that depends on you, Ellis,” Nick finally said, deadly serious. Now was the final round; he couldn't bluff anymore. The kid's answer would determine whether the time had come to fold – or go all in. “What do you want it to mean?”

Ellis' face was the very picture of agonized desperation. He was utterly lost, terrified of his own confused desires, and wanted to just give up. Fighting the horde would be infinitely preferable to answering that question! His hand hovered over his pocket, instinctively going for the adrenaline, but Nick's intense green gaze had him frozen in place. He had to say something, anything...

“I... I don't know,” he croaked, strangled by his own fear. “It was... I think... Oh god, I just don't know!”

Nick's eyes flashed. Carefully he stood up, very deliberately brushed the dirt from his clothes, and strode the few steps around the ashes to plant himself by the distraught young man's side. He reached down, firmly grasped the tattooed arm to lift Ellis to his feet – and did something incredibly stupid.

Ellis' whole body went rigid as Nick bowed his head. One of the conman's hands gently drew the mechanic close with a pressure on his lower back; the other cradled his face, holding it still so their lips could meet. For the eternity of a few seconds the gambler showed his cards, tenderly caressing the young man's cheek and kissing him with exquisite restraint. Nick wanted nothing more than to claim Ellis for his own, ravish him in the moonlit woods and never let him go; but he was merely casting the dice, and until they fell he couldn't risk that much. Instead he put all his desperate desire into the most bittersweet kiss he could, and used his entire being to convey the message – no, the request.

_Please..._

Fireworks went off in the back of Ellis' mind, and the shock froze his limbs solid. Eyes wide open, he could do nothing but stand there and take it for the time he needed to reboot himself; but when sensations came flooding in, all his muscles turned to water. His eyelids fell of their own accord and he moaned, a tiny sound deep in his chest that nevertheless prompted an answering one from Nick. The conman's lips melded with his own, pressing oh-so-gently in stark contrast with the raw need flexing his fingers. A bare hint of smooth caramel complemented the flavor of his mouth, the mouth he was holding back so as not to be overwhelming. How could he know that it was already too much, that he was already drowning his partner with buzzing and tingling and desperate heat?

After an impossible forever Ellis felt the gambler begin to retreat; but before his face was farther than a few inches away, the mechanic's arms came to life. Nick was forced to stop by a strong grip on his blue lapels, and the two men stood stock-still, breathing heavily, both afraid of what might come next – Nick, that Ellis might say no; and Ellis, that he himself might say yes.

“How about now, kid?” Nick prompted in a quiet, gravelly baritone. “Got a better idea of it yet?”

Ellis trembled all over, teetering on the edge of a dozen violent emotions at once. Blue eyes locked on the conman's green ones, and he saw in them the same heat and passion that coursed through those ringed fingers; but Rochelle whispered faintly in his ear to further clarify the look, and translated the minute creases in that scarred brow.

_He cares about you, sweetie._

“Uh... I gotta think s'more,” he mumbled, mouth not cooperating with the action of speech. “More inf'rmation...”

Suddenly an uncaring energy seized him with reckless abandon. The conman had just started to say something when Ellis yanked on his collar, crashing them back together in a wild embrace. The southerner took full advantage of Nick's slightly parted mouth, dragging his tongue across still-sugary lips before slipping in between.

It was the older man's turn to freeze up for a second, not daring to believe what was happening; but Ellis tasted like roasted marshmallows and innocence, and the contrast of velvety mouth with rough cheek was a uniquely masculine feeling. Nick groaned with joy, reveling in the new experience, and resettled his hands on the mechanic's body. Eagerly he let his mouth fall a little farther open, relishing the intimate dance of their tongues twining around each other. A huge weight evaporated from his chest and he pulled Ellis closer, breathing deep to let the young man's smoky scent fill him from the inside out.

He didn't notice the change in his blood. Finally free of his agonizing secret, finally holding Ellis tight and melting into his kiss, Nick lost track of the lust that had been eating him alive for days. Yes, those soft lips gave him goosebumps and yes, that gentle moan made his heart pound; but for once the _something_ was silent. His whole being sang with pure joy at every reciprocated touch, and he threw himself completely into the moment, this one perfect moment where everything went _right_.


	9. Chapter 9

Feather-light sighs mingled in the air that rushed to fill the place where their lips had been. Once more the night was fragile, but now like fine crystal resonating with a vibrato descant – exquisitely precious, yet ready to shatter at the slightest touch. A delicate treaty had been forged in the wet furnace of their kiss, but its terms were still unclear. Safety lay in firm understanding, but Nick treasured those dangerous seconds of potential, the expectant hush before consequences might crush his dreams. Every nerve in his body fizzed, an ecstatic heat filled his chest, and he didn't care what happened next, not yet. If the apocalypse had taught him anything, it was to cherish rare moments like this. He savored it, and committed every sense to memory so that whatever the world threw at him tomorrow, he'd always have those sapphire blue eyes to drown in again and again.

Uncut adrenaline was the only sensation Ellis had to compare it to. All the tremors, the pounding heart rate, the buzzing in his ears... Even his mind was in the same state of overdrive, unable to think critically – or, quite honestly, at all. Questions spun in a terrifying whirlwind, paralyzing him:

 _Why the **hell** did I just do that? Why'd I like it so much? How far is he gonna take this? How far do I **want** him to?_ He shoved all of them to the side, just like before, trying instead to focus on the task immediately at hand; but that was no better. It only left him with the most agonizing question of them all:

_What do I do now?_

Logic held forth in a tiny corner of his brain, a few neurons that Rochelle's spirit had managed to fortify. They screamed with awareness that Nick ( _ohmygod he's still touchin’ me_ ) was waiting for his decision. The next words out of his mouth might determine how the whole rest of this godforsaken trip would go. He physically struggled to speak, even though he had no idea of what to say, and hoped to hell that raw gut instinct would steer him through.

“H- hold on, I can't... can't do this...”

Well, fuck.

At least it bought him time; but the devastated pinch of Nick's eyes made Ellis' heart pinch up too. He stammered some more, clarifying to himself as much as the conman.

“Not... not like, _at all_ , just not... not like _this_ , s'too fast- dunno what I’m doin', don't wanna screw it up...”

Nick eased himself away a bit more, until their foreheads were no longer tangent and he could look the flustered Georgian straight in the eye. Disappointment softened his face, but hope kept his shoulders up and he gently laid a finger on Ellis' lips. They froze in place, just the tiniest bit open, as his voice withered away. The gambler grew a tiny smile – a real one, not his signature smirk – and spoke in a low, forgiving tone.

“Relax. We've got time. I couldn't keep it to myself anymore, that's all.” The wry twist found its way back to the corner of his mouth. “I'd say sorry if I came on too strong... but to be honest I'm having a hard time regretting it.”

That coaxed a tiny upwards twitch from the southerner's lips, and an emphasized exhale like the shadow of a chuckle. Ellis felt Rochelle's support steady his nerves when he realized that Nick wasn't mad, and took a deep breath as the rough finger fell away.

“Lissen, I... I ain't sayin' no. But there's some stuff I think we oughta talk about 'fore anythin' else happens.” He took a half-step back, finally releasing his grip on the blue shirt. His hands were balled up in fists so tight that stretching them out sent cramped spasms of pain up his wrist. With a tiny inclination of his head he beckoned Nick a little farther away from their sleeping teammates, swooping briefly to pick up his hat on the way.

The northerner followed him to a large tree, its trunk wide enough to let both of them lean against it side by side. Ellis sat facing camp, not wanting to entirely leave the sullen glow of their dying fire. Nick lowered himself to the ground a few inches away, and felt a thrilled flutter in his stomach when the younger man edged over to close the gap. Automatically his arm oriented itself to snake around those broad shoulders – force of habit, after so many nights spent picking up easy women – but he hesitated, wanting to let Ellis decide the pace. He was delighted when the mechanic leaned back into the soft place between his shoulder and chest, dirty brown curls grazing the gambler's unshaven jaw. He completed the possessive motion with a feeling of calm elation, hand coming to rest on the Georgian's well-defined bicep.

“Here's the thing,” Ellis began, and kept his hands busy by toying with the holster on Nick's thigh. “I like what we got now, an' I’ve lost friends this way before. Even Keith wasn't the same after... uh...” The conman's eyebrow jumped with interest, but he remained silent. “Anyway, point bein', I don't wanna rush inta somethin' that'll make shit awkward. It ain't like ya can call me in three days or nothin'.”

Nick weighed his concerns seriously before replying, but was relieved to hear the humor in the kid's voice and couldn't resist trying to lighten the mood with some of his own twisted brand.

“First, 'awkward' is not something I'd let on about, okay? You could wear black leather at night and make me call you 'master' and the others would never be able to tell.” He grinned a little, while Ellis went rigid with embarrassed shock. “Second, at this point you're pretty much stuck with me, so don't worry about 'losing friends.' What am I gonna do, go haring off on my own to get eaten alive?”

“'S what’cha wanted ta do in the first place,” Ellis muttered, relaxing a bit. Nick winced internally. He hated to be reminded of that.

“Not anymore, all right? Can you believe me, that I'd never do that?” He held his breath a little, discovering that he really cared about the mechanic's answer.

“I believe ya,” the southerner sighed, and Nick exhaled too.

“Good. That's... good.” He squeezed Ellis' shoulders gently, then guided his face up with a bare touch on his chin until their eyes met. The gambler rested the fingertips of his left hand lightly along that stubbled jaw, loving the texture against his sensitive skin.

“Third and most importantly,” he continued, clearly very serious now. “I _will not_ push you. I might not be what you'd call a saint, but even I respect the word 'no.' Understand?”

Ellis stared into his eyes, hard and green as malachite, and very slowly nodded. A fear he hadn't been able to isolate before dissolved, replaced by an intense gratitude. One down; god knows how many to go.

“Um... Nick?” he asked when the supporting hand fell from his face.

“Yeah, El?”

The mechanic squirmed, both at the diminutive and at the question he needed to ask. Cheeks hot, he began to examine the forest floor closely. “I gotta know... how much yer gonna want outta this. Ya didn't... Kissin' ain't a proper answer. Not really.”

Nick tilted his head back against the tree trunk, releasing a heavy sigh to the stars. The answer he'd given Coach lurked in the dark recesses of his mind, but if any one word could send the kid running, it was that.

“Enough that you probably don't have to worry about pushing me,” he finally said, squeezing Ellis' shoulders again and feeling the muscles tense up once more.

“Look, I ain't a girl, I don't do the whole talkin'-in-circles thing. Give it ta me in plain English, why don’t’cha?”

Nick closed his eyes, reluctant to say any more than that; but he respected the mechanic enough to comply with his request, and cared enough about his fragile emotional state to dress up the truth in pretty words that would be easier to hear.

“You're a good kid, Ellis. I don't want to scare you. But since you asked...” He sighed, then steeled himself with another deep breath. This wasn't so different from the cheesy pick-up speeches he used to give all the time – why was it so much harder to say?

“Right here, sitting like this. This is nice. It was nice to have you there when I couldn’t face being alone. It’s amazing to see you get all excited and happy about things I've forgotten how to appreciate… You’re the one bright spot in this whole goddamn apocalypse, and it makes me want to get as close to you as I can. So, that’s what I’m aiming for. I want to get you alone some time, somewhere safe, and-” ... _screw you so hard you pass out..._ “-learn how to make love to a sweet southern boy like you.”

Surprisingly, Ellis did not flinch. He'd more or less expected that answer, and having it out in the open was oddly reassuring. Solid facts about expectations and desires were much more useful than half-truths and implications that were supposed to be 'figured out.' Heck, even though he didn't _know_ what he wanted yet, he could at least be upfront about it. He smiled into the middle distance.

“Thanks for bein' honest, Nick.”

Unfamiliar pangs of guilt stabbed the conman's gut, but he reminded himself that he'd only told white lies, a fancy gloss that didn't change the meaning underneath. And the mechanic continued with a sigh and halting words that set hope glowing in the older man's chest.

“I like bein' with ya. Ya make me feel safe, kinda reassurin'-like, an'... ya helped a lot, gettin' me ta deal with all that nightmare shit in my head. What I guess I mean is...” He absentmindedly chewed at his lower lip, trying to be sure that he _would_ say what he meant. A blush began mantling his cheeks when he finally spoke. “If we're gonna do this... be a _thing_ , or whatever ya wanna call it? Go slow. I still dunno how I feel 'bout some things, but... I wanna try.”

“Things like..?” Nick asked, heart in his throat. Ellis' face got another shade pinker.

“The kissin' an’... other stuff,” he muttered, “but mostly it's... We're under a lotta stress, y'know? How can ya be sure this ain't, like, some kinda reaction to it? I don't wanna get inta somethin' on... whatchamacallit, 'false pretense?' How can we be sure we ain't just settin' ourselves up for misery later?”

Nick blinked a couple of times, taken aback both by the question and by the southerner's knowledge of the legal term. He was quiet for a moment, actually considering its ramifications; he'd never had a relationship, in business or in private, that _wasn't_ based on false pretenses. He raised an eyebrow; this little adventure was turning out to cover several kinds of unknown territory.

“I guess we can't,” he sighed. “But acknowledging the possibility is a defense in itself. Let's play it by ear, okay?”

“Okay,” Ellis said quietly, brow still furrowed in thought. Nick gave the mechanic's shoulder a gentle shake in silent encouragement.

“Buck up, kiddo. I know I've forced you outside your comfort zone already, but I won't do anything you don't want me to, all right?” He tilted his head just enough to position his mouth directly next to the younger man's ear, and murmured as tenderly as he could. “Tell me to stop, and I'll stop. I swear.”

His purring voice and gentle puff of breath combined to give Ellis goosebumps. He squeezed his eyes shut, still somewhat ashamed by what he was feeling; and suddenly from all the fragmented and conflicting parts of him came an aggregate forgiveness.

 _It's okay,_ it told him. _Quit fightin' it. Yer only gonna make yerself miserable, an' that's stupid when Nick basically just offered his whole damn self to ya! For cryin' out loud, ain't this the point?_

He sat up a little straighter and turned his head, lips timidly grazing the conman's sharp cheekbone. Though the kiss was light it rekindled his blush, and he immediately ducked defensively under a hat that wasn’t there.

“I believe ya. An' I trust ya. An' I think... I think I can do this.”

Nick's pulse soared and he lifted his hand again, guiding the mechanic's face with a firm but gentle touch on his chin. He met no resistance and in the instant before his eyelids glided shut the gambler saw an expression of utter surrender, like Ellis had just given up – but he was smiling, too, and his eyes somehow sparkled in defiance of the lightless woods.

Neither froze up this time, and their ever-so-slightly parted lips fit together like a dream. There was no desperation, no lust; just the simple joy of two lost souls who weren't alone anymore.

Ellis brought his whole mind into it until there was nothing else in the world but that scruffy cheek and the warm tongue that delicately caressed his mouth. In return he gently nipped at Nick's thin lower lip, earning himself a sigh of appreciation. He quickly began to feel light-headed and woozy with endorphins, but he was incredibly reluctant to draw back. Instead he adjusted his shoulders and put his right hand on the conman's chest - for stability purposes only, of course.

Nick thrilled to the touch, covering the mechanic's hand with his own and giving a gentle squeeze. In response Ellis curled his fingers slightly, right into the bare patch where the blue dress shirt was missing a button. The slight, grasping pressure made the gambler inhale sharply as his desire woke again, violently constricting his loins and sending high-voltage energy surging to his head. He scrambled to keep control, just barely managing to end the kiss softly before it became something dangerously close to hot-and-heavy. Heart hammering, Nick leaned back and stared up at the branches so he wouldn't have to look at the younger man's beautiful face.

 _That's what I get for letting my guard down,_ he thought wryly. _Not that it wasn't worth it..._

“Nick?” Ellis' voice, low with concern, didn't help much with the self-control issue. Nick replied with an indistinct noise.

“Nnh?”

“You all right?

“Yeah, I’m fine.”

“Yer lookin' awful tired,” the mechanic said. “I think it's about time we hit the hay.”

Nick suddenly realized that by now he'd been awake for close to twenty-four hours straight. The sugar high from half a bag of marshmallows was wearing off, and the intensity of what had just happened had drained him. With a groan he leaned forward, dislodging Ellis from his semi-reclined position, and rubbed his face with his hands.

“No kidding.”

“Lissen,” Ellis added, “'fore I wake 'em up, can we agree ta not have 'em know? Let 'em think we got touched in the head from... y'know, stuff.”

Nick chuckled. “They've already seen us holding hands, fireball. I doubt there's much to keep secret.”

“Yeah there is... they ain't seen us... kissin' or... bein' _physical,_ right? Well, Ro knows 'bout when ya were drunk but not how I'm dealin' with it.” Suddenly his face fell. “Oh lord. She better not tell Coach... I never said t'keep it quiet, I wasn't thinkin' that clear. Shit.”

Nick shook his head.

“She's a smart girl. She won't tell. And don't get too paranoid about it, or we'll end up with one of those stupid 'does he know I know' situations. We haven't got time to fuck around with that.”

“Now ya sound like Coach,” Ellis chided. Nick ruffled his hair, then used his head to lever himself off the ground, eliciting an indignant noise of protest.

“Whatever, ace. Let's get some sleep.”


	10. Chapter 10

“Red sky at morning,” Rochelle muttered as the sun rose. “Doesn't that mean a storm's coming?”

“Could be, baby girl,” Coach replied with a frown. “Air's feelin' heavy. I reckon we oughta get movin' sooner t'day than we did yesterday.”

Rochelle glanced over to where the boys slept. Ellis was sprawled gracelessly against a tree trunk and Nick was curled into a tight white ball by his feet, looking more like a devoted guard dog than a hard-bitten criminal.

“I wish we could let them be for a while longer,” she sighed. “They look like they need the rest.”

“We all do, baby girl,” the older man said. “But if it's gonna rain we need t'get ourselves under a real roof. The sooner we head out, the better chance we'll get there 'fore shit turns nasty.” He began to check his bag, resettling the items inside so they would lie comfortably on his back.

Rochelle's mouth twisted with discontent, but she knew the big man was right. Reluctantly she knelt by Ellis and put a hand on his shoulder, speaking softly into his ear.

“Wake up, sweetie. We're leaving.”

The mechanic made small, indistinct sounds and rolled his head sideways. The journalist raised her voice a little.

“Ellis, I'm sorry, but you have to get up.” When she got no response she gently shook his arm. That did it; he came alive with a slightly startled jump, hand reflexively going to his gun. He pawed at his face, at first not registering that his cap was pulled all the way down over it; but in short order he raised the bill and squinted into the bloody dawn.

“Unnnh...” he moaned reluctantly, for all the world like a teenager who didn't want to go to school. Rochelle smiled.

“You go on and wake Nick up, now. It's going to rain and Coach wants to get us back to civilization before that happens, so no dawdling.” She rose and tended to her own supplies, but kept a subtle eye on her teammates. She'd spent most of her watch wondering what had happened during theirs, and hoped to catch a hint by watching their interactions.

Little could be gleaned from the process of rousing Nick from his slumber. The conman just covered his face at first, unfurling only when Ellis forced a bottle of water under his nose. He downed half, then passed it back and got up to stretch with an expression that very clearly said “I'm too old for this shit.” Meanwhile the mechanic took an energy bar from his pocket, and gnawed at it while giving his rifle a quick once-over.

Rochelle didn't watch Nick perform his morning rituals – she watched Ellis watching him. The young man's blue eyes kept darting to the side, glancing at the gambler for a split second before refocusing on his work. It was always accompanied by a very faint blush, just enough to make the journalist want to grin. There wasn't any new information here, but it was still funny, and just the tiniest bit cute.

When they set out she maneuvered their formation to get a word with him in relative private. Nick and Coach walked ahead like two cats ignoring each other while she hung back with the younger Georgian. His nervousness was all over his face, immediately indicating that there was something he didn't want her to know. She knew better than to dig _too_ hard at it, though, and was confident that he'd tell her of his own volition when he felt ready. Just a bit of prodding, then.

“So... Did you talk to him last night?” she asked gently. Ellis swallowed so hard she could hear the gulp.

“I, uh... We're just... y'know, we ain't really recovered from shit... an' we need each other for, like, moral support or whatever. Don't really wanna talk about it, Ro, sorry.” Technically he'd spoken only truth, but lying by omission was nearly as bad as lying outright. It tore at him, and he turned his face away so Rochelle couldn't see.

She drummed her fingers on the magazine of her rifle, hanging from her shoulder by its strap. Quite obviously there was more to it, but he seemed uncomfortable enough that she let it be. Increasing her pace slightly she closed the gap between them and the older men, suddenly eager to break the strange tension between them. Apparently Ellis wasn't the only one showing signs of stress.

Perhaps the threatening weather was to blame, but the group didn't talk much that morning. They saved their breath for walking at a brisk pace; the heat and increasing humidity made it miserable, but it was better than being caught out in the rain with nowhere dry to sleep.

Unfortunately their recent dilly-dallying meant that it would take longer than the expected half-day to reach their waypoint. Though they walked quickly, the dark clouds spread across the sky with worrying speed, accompanied by the beginnings of a gusty wind. Lunch was eaten on the move as fat drops began to splatter down through the trees, and the highway was still nowhere in sight.

“Hey, couldja carry this for a sec?” Ellis asked Nick, holding out his gun and bag.

“What am I, your pack mule?” the conman groused, but took the extra burden anyway and watched with excited fascination as the mechanic untied the arms of his coveralls. He could have sworn that the kid showed off his slender waist just a second longer than necessary before pulling the garment over his upper body.

“Son, ain't’chu gonna be awful hot in that thing?” Coach asked skeptically.

 _He'd be hotter without it,_ Nick caught himself thinking, and grimaced. He stared pointedly off into the woods as Ellis zipped himself up, laughing, and tucked his hat in a pocket so it wouldn’t blow away.

“Naw, man, it ain't that heavy. An' with all the oil stains an' crap, the damn thing's near waterproof!” He reached for his supplies and found only air; turning, he saw that Nick had stopped.

“C'mon, mister! Or don't you care that your suit's getting wet?” Rochelle chided, but her good-natured smile fell like the bags he dropped to raise his gun.

 _KRAKK!!_ went the sniper rifle, and the northerner relaxed after one last check through the scope. Ellis bent to recover his belongings and flashed a quick, tight smile.

“Anythin' special?”

“Nah. But we must be getting close to a settled area. Everybody look sharp.”

“Well, it was nice while it lasted,” Coach sighed. “Hope my aim ain't too rusty from all that easy livin' these last few days.”

“You got a weird definition for 'easy,' man,” Ellis chuckled.

“Uh, gentlemen? We have a problem...” Rochelle pointed to the southeast, where a very strong storm front was speeding across the sky. It was so strong, in fact, that the squall line was distinctly visible: an almost solid sheet of rain, rippling like a curtain from the clouds and streaked with brilliant flashes of lightning. The mechanic's laughter stopped dead.

“Ho-lee _shit_ ,” he whispered.

“Fuck,” Nick growled. “Hear that? Maybe we should wait it out here, before we get into infected territory. I bet weather like that'd drive those bastards nuts.”

Indeed, as the disturbance moved closer it brought with it a massive roar – not just thunder, but also sheer volume of liquid slamming into the earth at terminal velocity. Hordes had come swarming at sounds quieter than that.

“We keep movin'! C’mon now, pick yo' asses _up_!” Coach harried them to a light jog, eager to cover as much ground as possible before it got too dark to see. He'd noticed all the furtive glances going around but didn't give a damn so long as everybody kept their heads on straight. Unfortunately it seemed they needed a little reminding – Ellis kept looking at Nick, and Rochelle kept looking at _both_ of them. The older man grimaced at a twinge in his knee and fell to the rear, using the position to herd his little flock along.

Hardly any time at all passed before the squall hit. The branches overhead did practically nothing to ease the onslaught, sometimes even making it worse by collecting water into large splashes to dump on their heads. Almost instantly they were all thoroughly drenched, coveralls notwithstanding.

Ellis twisted his mouth in annoyance, unable to slow down to peel the sodden article off his torso; but once he was totally soaked through he decided it really wasn't so bad. Wet was wet, and getting upset about it wouldn't change anything. Instead he let himself enjoy it – he'd been thrown into the river plenty back home, and it was fun every time.

 _Oh, shit,_ he moaned, remembering the bourbon dare incident. _It didn't happen that way, dammit. Ya went home an' passed out in bed!_ He grit his teeth, seeing blood on the water again no matter how hard he reasserted the truth. Tears prickled at his eyes and he almost laughed. In high school he'd mercilessly mocked the “emo” kids for the very words he was thinking now: _In the rain, no-one can see you cry._

Nick cursed under his breath with every step, pissed as a wet cat. He sort of looked like one, too, with his hair plastered to his head and green eyes slitted against the wind. Visibility had gone to shit, so he slung his rifle onto his back and drew his pistol instead. He made sure to keep line of sight with his teammates; it would be frighteningly easy to lose each other in this storm.

Twinges of fear made him double-check that Ellis was still there – he didn't exactly stand out with his bright shirt hidden by dark blue coveralls. He let his gaze linger on the mechanic's face, and in the harsh light of a lightning strike his keenly trained eyes picked up on an expression of suppressed anguish. Surprised and concerned, the gambler jogged abreast of the distraught young man and gave him a gentle nudge.

Ellis snapped his head up at the touch. Nick's subtly worried face looked back at him, and he wanted to laugh and cry in equal measure. All he could manage was a watery smile that bordered on a grimace.

It hurt to see the kid look like that. Nick swapped his pistol into his left hand and caught Ellis' with his right, giving a small, confident nod as his young companion’s eyebrows rose.

They kept moving and Ellis got himself together, letting only a few tears join the rain before releasing the older man's hand. He answered the questioning look with a firm nod of his own, and focused once again on the wind-whipped trees before them.

The storm couldn't maintain its devastating deluge for long, but it only slowed to a rate that still counted as heavy. To make matters worse, the infected were returning, in greater numbers than had been around before they’d entered the woods. Nick had been right in thinking that the weather would aggravate them, and the incessant pounding of the rain masked their usual inhuman noises. The survivors were forced to slow down so they wouldn't run straight into unseen enemies, and nobody was particularly happy about it.

“Okay, I know I wanted a shower, but this is ridiculous,” Rochelle quipped as she reloaded. Coach snorted in wry amusement.

Nick raked his hair out of his eyes for the umpteenth time and plucked Ellis' pistol straight from the holster, dual-wielding them to make up for his lack of appropriate rifle. His deft hands were so practiced that the mechanic didn't notice the weapon's disappearance until he reached into his pocket for a new magazine. He glared indignantly and the thief winked rakishly at him.

“Don't worry, kiddo, you'll get it back.” He turned to blow the heads off a couple of commons, and missed the affectionate way Ellis smiled at his cheeky attitude.

A couple more heavy cells surged through before the sky began to darken in earnest. Rochelle groaned; the prospect of getting stuck out here at night, with the storm showing no sign of stopping, was a bleak one. She yawned hugely just thinking about it.

“We keep goin',” Coach said firmly, brooking no argument. “No sleepin' in the rain. We're walkin' through this shit 'til we find someplace to dry off.”

Nobody protested out loud, but they were all low on energy and fondly remembered their campfire, wishing their little vacation could have lasted for longer. Ellis forced himself to stop reliving that night, afraid he'd lose focus; but in between the brief bouts of fighting, he'd glance to the side and nervously lick his lips. He had to admit, now that he let himself think about it, that Nick was actually very attractive. Especially with a pistol in each hand, smirking faintly as his targets fell before him.

The mechanic shuddered, suddenly cold, and wrenched his gaze forward. Night had definitely fallen, and he strained to see the pale skin of infected standing idle between the trees as he slogged on through the mud. The bright circle of his flashlight made twinkling streaks out of the raindrops that obscured the woods, making it even harder, but eventually he spotted something different. At first he thought it was just another watery reflection, but it didn't go away, so he shouted over the wind to beckon Coach over.

“Check it out, man, I think that's a light!”

“Hmm.” Their leader frowned in thought. “Could be there's somebody else alive over there. Better take a look.”

Nick traded glances with Rochelle, then Ellis. Hope gave them speed as they made their way toward the mysterious glow. It steadily grew larger, and in short order they emerged into a clearing. A rough fence made of sharpened branches ringed a sturdy two-story hunting lodge, a second-floor window of which was emitting the warm light. Corpses lay scattered about, mutated with infection and riddled with bullets. The ground floor was boarded up, save for an inexpertly reinforced door that hung ajar.

The group clambered past the fence and cautiously approached the house. On closer inspection the door had not been battered in – it had been opened on purpose, and the heavy bars meant to brace it lay just inside. They swept their lights around the room, checking all the corners for infected.

“Found our host,” Nick's wry voice announced, “but I don't think he's gonna be making us dinner.”

A strongly built man of about sixty, uninfected, lay dead with horrible lacerations across his chest. He obviously hadn't been there for long – maybe a day, since there was no rot yet. Next to him was an emaciated girl in ripped clothing, face horribly twisted and fingers elongated into wicked claws. Her neck was broken.

“Damn,” said Coach as Ellis whistled lowly.

“I wonder why he let _that_ in,” Rochelle said quietly, already preparing to drag the witch away. Nick knelt by the dead man, and with two gentle fingers drew his eyelids shut.

“My guess? He didn’t. He's got his little fort, and she shows up here same as us, looking for shelter. She turns, they fight, they kill each other.” He sighed heavily and made a move to pick the body up. Ellis stopped him with a hand on his shoulder.

“I got this one. Don't want yer suit gettin' dirty.”

The mechanic's sad smile made Nick's heart ache. He watched as the young man hefted the corpse over his shoulder, unfazed by the semi-congealed blood smearing his coveralls. That's what they were for, after all.

Ellis carried the man outside and stopped. He wanted to bury the poor guy, but he didn't see a shovel on hand, nor were there any convenient pre-dug pits lying about. Reluctantly he sighed and lay the body down a slight distance away from the putrid heap of infected – at least he deserved to be separate from those things, even if they were all sinking in the same mud.

He let the rain rinse most of the blood off, turning his face to the sky with eyes gently shut. A few gunshots sounded from behind and he ignored them, knowing his friends were just clearing the place out. Heavy drops spattered across his cheeks and he sighed, bloody flashbacks surfacing again. They weren't unexpected – he now knew the weather would bring them back, and this time he let himself accept them. Keith's lifeless body floated downstream, and Ellis just watched until the storm scoured the image from his mind and he heard someone calling his name.

“Ellis! Honey, get inside before something decides to pounce on you.” Rochelle had dumped the witch unceremoniously a few meters from the house, and now tugged gently at his arm. He opened his eyes to see her looking worried, and a little smile played about her lips when she saw him returning to the present.

“Come on, it's dry in there.”

The mechanic let her drag him inside. Even though the place had been open for only a day or two quite a few infected had managed to wander in, as evidenced by the small pile of bleeding bodies just outside the door. Coach grunted and pitched a fresh corpse out into the storm.

“That's the last of 'em.”

The declaration let everyone relax a little, but it was only when Nick shut and barred the door that their grips on their weapons eased. Ellis glanced around mischievously and shook like a dog, shaggy hair flinging little droplets in all directions.

“Ah, hey, watch it!” protested Rochelle, shielding her face. The mechanic laughed.

“Yer still soaked, a lil' more water won't hurt none.”

Coach cleared his eyes and chuckled faintly. “This house is stocked. Go get some towels, baby girl, an' pick a room. I'll make sure these bastards let’cha dry off in peace.”

“Hey!” Nick drew himself up in a mocking imitation of offense. “How dare you insult my honor? Everyone knows that a lady's privacy is sacred,” he said with a smirk and bawdy wink at Rochelle. She actually giggled.

“Stoppit, you,” she chided, and hefted her flashlight. “Where's the bathroom, Coach? As long as I'm wet I'm going to get some of this dirt off.”

“There's two, I'll show ya.” The big man led Rochelle down a hallway and indicated a door, then returned to the younger men and motioned for them to follow him up the stairs. They meekly trailed along behind, dripping.

The light that had beckoned them here came from a bare bulb hooked up to a car battery by a series of dangerous-looking wires. It was blisteringly hot, and probably a fire hazard, but Ellis was afraid to touch it. They looted the upstairs bathroom of all its fluffy terrycloth and divided it between the three of them, then split up to dry off. More accurately, Coach split up. Nick dragged Ellis along by the sleeve to claim the room with the light.

There was a small closet with hangers, which pleased the gambler to no end. He promptly dropped his things by the queen-size bed and struggled out of his jacket, hanging it up neatly to drip-dry. He started to unbutton his blue shirt, sighing in relief as the ragged blue fabric released its clinging grip on his skin. When he'd got the damn thing untucked and open he reached for another hanger - and paused.

Ellis was still holding his gun, standing awkwardly by the door. A small puddle was collecting around his feet and he looked a little pathetic, like a wet puppy waiting to be let inside. Nick regarded him with a wry smile and finished stripping the shirt from his arms.

“Never been in a locker room, ace?”

The mechanic turned red again and muttered something unintelligible. He didn't move beyond a nervous shifting of his feet.

“C'mon, fireball, you'll catch the flu that way,” Nick joked, tidily stowing the shirt in the closet, too. He idly wished for some bleach and a flatiron despite knowing his suit was a lost cause. He gave a tiny little sigh and leaned against the wall to untie his shoes.

Ellis hated it. Of _course_ he'd been in a locker room before - he used to play football in high school - but none of the guys on his team had ever... uh, 'expressed interest.' Knowing what Nick was thinking changed the game, and he wasn't entirely comfortable undressing in front of the man.

Clearly the feeling was not mutual. The embarrassed mechanic stared helplessly as Nick shamelessly removed his shirt, first exposing some fresh scratch marks on his collarbone and getting progressively worse – or better – with every loosed button. He could have given Keith a run for his money in the scars department; his pale skin was positively laced with them, slicing interesting gaps in the dark, wiry hair that dusted his chest. Lean muscles flexed visibly, any fat burned away weeks ago by their desperate lifestyle and leaving behind a surprisingly defined physique.

When Ellis saw the narrow trail of hair that led down the conman's abs he squeezed his eyes shut for a moment. It wasn't like he'd never seen the guy shirtless before – modesty took a back seat to medical necessity on occasion – but now it was different. There wasn't the pressing urgency of an open wound to worry about this time. Nick was just... stripping. Right there. _Right there!_

The gambler set his loafers aside and regarded his immobile young audience. He experimentally twisted a bit to emphasize his waist, and rejoiced to see Ellis' eyes go just that much wider; but the poor kid was obviously mortified, and Nick _had_ promised not to push...

 _Then again_ , he thought selfishly, _he hasn't actually told you to stop_.

He kicked himself for the idea and stopped undoing his belt, instead crossing his arms in a gentle sort of challenge. Ellis blinked slowly up to meet his eyes.

“I can find another room,” he offered. “I just thought you might want some company tonight, since you were upset earlier.”

“N- naw. 'Sokay,” the young man mumbled. “I 'preciate it. Just a little... a little...”

“I know, sport. Want me to put on something else? There's gotta be some clean clothes in this shack...” he trailed off as Ellis shook his head firmly and lowered his burdens to the floor.

The southerner considered the offer, but couldn't come up with a logical reason to be shy. It was just a baseless fear of what he'd already confessed to wanting, and though it didn't show, he knew Nick would definitely be disappointed if he left. So, by force of will, he suppressed his reservations and started to take off his clothes.

The conman watched with rapt attention as the coveralls’ shiny zipper pull traveled all the way down, down, down to the tantalizing place it was forced to stop. Ellis shrugged out of the arms and peeled the one-piece garment off like a navy-blue banana. It reached the level of his hips, where he usually wore it tied up – and kept going. He leaned against the wall and slid out of the legs, one at a time, right over his big black boots until the whole thing crumpled to the floor in a sodden pile. The things in his pockets made dull _clunk_ s on the hardwood.

Ellis looked a little weird without his signature coveralls – he now wore only his grubby shirt, heavy shoes, and a pair of light blue boxers. His muscular legs were exposed to the air and he shivered a bit, then slid down the wall to sit on the floor and untie his boots. Nick shivered too, but it had nothing to do with the temperature. He watched greedily as the footwear was put aside and filthy socks laid out flat to dry. There was some kind of pattern on the boxers, little dark spots scattered regularly across the fabric, but he couldn't figure out what the decoration was before Ellis stood up and took off his shirt.

 _Holy hell,_ Nick whispered to himself, and quickly shifted to hide his painfully sudden erection.

He knew the kid was ripped. The wound he himself had bandaged last week was visible half-healed on the mechanic's side. He'd seen it all before; but never like this.

Water made every inch of skin glisten in the light, emphasizing the already sculpted muscles. Ellis had a few jagged scars in random places, evidence of ill-fated adventures with Keith as opposed to Nick's bullet and knife wounds. It broke the perfect symmetry of the southerner's torso in a pleasing way; they drew the gambler's eye quite naturally across his smooth pecs to his chiseled abs, and then straight to the light brown tuft of hair that trailed down into shrouded mystery.

Ellis' face was so hot he could have dried all their clothes off right there. Nick's hungry green eyes roamed over his body, making him feel even nakeder than he was already, and as he emptied the pockets of his coveralls he checked to make sure his boxers were properly buttoned. Reassured of his last scrap of modesty, he took his sodden clothes to the window and wrung them out in the downwind, dry place under the eaves. It was impressive how much lighter they were when he was done.

Meanwhile Nick just stared, getting to appreciate the young man's back now, too. The wringing motion caused his shoulders to flex and twist, muscles rippling deliciously. And lord have mercy, _that ass!_ The conman had to bite his lip to stifle a moan. Bent slightly out the window, the southerner had his rear on full display – and his wet, clingy boxers left little to the imagination.

By the time Ellis followed Nick's example and moved to hang up his damp clothes, the conman was fit to burst. He fiercely regretted his actions – either swearing not to push or maneuvering this little bunking arrangement, one or the other. Now he was stuck with a backwoods Adonis he'd essentially sworn not to touch.

“El?” he asked, forcing himself to sound light and airy. “Why don't you grab a fresh shirt? You look cold.”

The mechanic paused drying himself off and looked Nick in the eye. He could hear the stress in that usually smooth voice, and had hidden enough awkward boners himself to recognize the gambler's posture. He was pretty sure it was impossible to blush any harder, and he dove under the towel both to vigorously shake out his hair and to hide his face.

“I ain't, but I'll put somethin' on if ya want me to,” he said indistinctly from under the wild mess on his head. “Yer the one wanted me ta strip inna first place.” Nick's stomach clenched as Ellis surfaced, curls swept in all directions at once. It looked like the best kind of erotic bedhead, and the red of his cheeks only added to the image.

“My bad,” the northerner gulped weakly. “God, kid, you're... _Jesus_ , I don't think 'slow' is gonna work unless you put on some PJs.” Ellis ducked his head again, unable to even acknowledge the implied compliment, and quickly began to rummage in a dresser. Nick actually groaned out loud when the younger man knelt down, losing control for the split-second it took to visualize the kid on his knees somewhere else.

The low sound of raw need prompted Ellis to stop being picky and just grab the next big t-shirt he laid hands on. He yanked it over his head inside-out, skin crawling with hints of electric lust, still wondering just what he was so afraid of.


	11. Chapter 11

Nick was both relieved and disappointed. He got himself under control once the mechanic pulled on a loose pair of pants too, and a few fevered games of mental blackjack finally quieted his raging desire. When he could move without shame he rubbed at his face, quietly cursing up a storm. It couldn't work like this, dammit.

 _You've got to keep a better handle on yourself_ , he growled. _Or do you **want** to add rape to your criminal record? Cut it out! _ He paced back and forth by the bed, leaving a quiet blue streak of coarse language in his wake.

Ellis, much calmer now that he had some pajamas on, had begun to tend to his firearms. They were full of water, so he took extra time to dry every individual piece before putting them back together. He finished with his own gun and sidearm before Nick was done griping, so he continued on to the second pistol and the sniper rifle. But there was a problem.

“Uh, Nick?” he called hesitantly.

The conman froze at the sound of his name. He whipped his head around to see the mechanic sitting on the floor, the big weapon in front of him and a look of sheepish concern on his face.

“What?” Nick demanded shortly.

“I ain't never worked on one a' these before. Gonna need yer help ta clean it.” Ellis held his breath as he watched Nick deliberate, but he was afraid to meet those piercing eyes. Instead he examined the network of scars that spread across the former hitman's chest and wondered if, like his own, each one had a story.

“Watch.” Nick sat suddenly, cross-legged to lean over the rifle between them. Ellis blushed a bit at the way his slacks stretched in the crotchal region and quickly dropped his eyes to the work, using the opportunity to wolf down a quick dinner from his bag.

Cleaning his gun had a calming effect on the older man, and his student was a quick learner. When he'd finished he handed Ellis the reassembled sniper and told him to do it by himself. Apparently the mechanic's talents weren't limited to automobiles; he stripped the weapon down, and put it back together with total confidence. Nick finished his own food, took the rifle back, and fired it out the window, drawing a little gurgling scream from the stormy darkness. He smiled.

“Nice job, ace. I was worried about this thing.”

Ellis glowed. Nick was calm and happy again, plus he'd learned something new and useful.

“'So long's we can find more amm... more aahhh...” He yawned hugely. “'Scuse me. So long's we got ammo, I wanna keep 'er. She's a real beauty.”

Nick crinkled his eyes in amusement as Ellis rose from the floor only to fall dramatically into bed a second later. He put the rifle down on top of the dresser, paused, and asked something he'd been wondering for a while.

“Ellis, why do you call guns and cars 'she?'”

The mechanic laughed. “Why do ya call boats 'she?'” He stretched to put his hands behind his head and crossed his legs comfortably. “They just got personality, y'know? 'Specially when ya get inside 'em an' see how they work. All the mechanisms an' shit fit together different for every one, even if they were made on the same assembly line.”

Nick smirked and suppressed a yawn of his own. Ellis suddenly looked awfully happy on that mattress, so the conman resumed his interrupted preparations for bed.

“I'll have to take your word on that, sport,” he commented, drawing his belt through the loops of his slacks. The leather was stiff from being stuck like that as it dried. “Sure I've had favorites, but they're always... things.”

Ellis had his eyes closed, or he would have freaked out again as Nick took off his pants to hang in the closet.

“I dunno,” he replied. “They just talk ta me.”

“So what's my black beauty saying?” asked the conman as he toweled off the last of the damp. The mechanic grinned, eyes still shut.

“Aw, she's kinda smug. For a reason, too – she knows what she's here for an' she looks damn good doin' it! Like... um...” He tapped his foot for a moment. “Ya ever seen that ol' movie _Batman Returns_? From the nineties? Michelle Pfeiffer's Catwoman. That's what yer rifle's like.”

Nick scoffed, amusement muffled by the terrycloth over his face.

“Were you even _born_ when that came out?”

“Wh- Shut up! I got an appreciation for the classics, okay?” Ellis rolled over to fling an indignant pillow at him - and suddenly choked on his laughter.

Nick was just straightening up, pulling at the ends of the towel draped behind his neck. All he had on was a pair of sleek black boxers that perfectly matched his damp hair, released from its usual slicked-back hold to fly free in all directions. The rest of his body was just as lean and wiry as his chest, if slightly less scarred; and a completely genuine grin shone on his face, lighting up the room with a kind of joy Ellis hadn't thought the conman would ever be caught dead expressing. His emerald eyes twinkled as he laughed, and his lanky frame was relaxed from head to toe. When he noticed the mechanic staring he only smiled wider.

“Like what you see, kid? Or should I throw on a nightgown?”

Ellis failed to respond verbally, heart pounding in his throat. He tried to answer both questions at once by simultaneously nodding and shaking his head, but that didn't work either – it only served to further amuse the mostly-naked conman, which in turn just got Ellis more flustered. Desperate, he finally scooched backwards to offer up a place on the bed. Nick's smile got a little seductive.

“Really? You don't care if I'm not wearing pajamas?”

The younger man shook his head emphatically.

“Is that a no to the question, or no you don't care? Go on, use your words.”

Ellis was bright red again, and Nick felt a little bad for teasing him, but he was so damn _cute_ when he was embarrassed! Those bright blue eyes stayed fixed on his own green ones as the kid swallowed hard and tried again to speak.

“I... I don't care. C'mon, let's, uh... let's get some sleep.”

Dark glee touched the corners of Nick's mouth and Ellis almost regretted his decision. But then the northerner sidled up to him and curled an arm behind his shoulders. It _could_ have been an innocent gesture, and it felt nice, but it also forced him to turn slightly. The mechanic was presented with a perfect view of Nick's body, every muscle rising and falling gently in time with his breath.

Ellis couldn't have closed his eyes if he'd wanted to. Suddenly he wasn't really tired anymore; his skin was extra-sensitive to every point of contact between the two of them, tingling with potential energy. To his horror he noticed his own body reacting with excitement; but he quickly stopped feeling anything other than shameful pleasure because Nick started to kiss him.

The conman shifted to bring their faces together and Ellis moaned, half-reluctant, but not really – his lips were on fire, hot with a sudden greed, and he could feel the gambler's wiry muscles gently flexing as their bodies molded against one another. It was a pretty weird sensation, actually. Even the most athletic of the mechanic's former girlfriends hadn't been this firmly toned, and Nick had a soft expanse of dark hair where a woman's breasts should have been. It didn't make much physical sense, and Ellis' anatomy twitched in confusion – but it did twitch all the same.

Nick was keeping control by the skin of his teeth, barely managing to restrain himself from tearing the kid's clothes off. The only thing holding him back was the knowledge that poor Ellis was terrified, and his security was the most important thing. The older man truly did not want to upset or hurt him, so when he felt the mechanic squirm a little he drew back, and whispered roughly in his ear.

“You scared?”

The hesitation was answer enough.

“Tell me to back off, and I will.”

Emphatic shake of the head.

“Then what do you want me to do?”

Ellis fought through alternating waves of lust and fear to reply.

“I... I dunno... I ain't ready ta go... uhh... _all_ the way, but... Do what’cha want an'... an' I'll tell ya if it's too much.”

Nick gave a gentle moan in reply and nuzzled his partner's jaw right by the ear. The resulting shiver was positively delicious, and he felt himself buzz with desire, but Ellis had first priority and the conman kept a rein on it for his sake.

It didn't strike him how strange it was that he was placing someone else's needs before his own. He was too busy getting rid of the big red t-shirt that stood between him and that sculpted chest, tossing it aside with no thought to where it fell. Nick lightly ghosted his hands across Ellis' abs and brought them to rest on those narrow hips, squeezing just a little and breathing deeply with appreciation at the gasp he received in response. He then kissed his way down Ellis' rough cheek to his neck, and lavished attention on the sensitive nerves there. Every little nip drew a new and exciting sound from the mechanic, a one-man chorus of “mms” and “aahs” and tiny half-stifled whimpers.

Ellis was lost. Nick's teeth and tongue raised delightful goosebumps across his whole body, shattering his barriers with frightening ease. His blue shorts tented up eagerly, all confusion gone, but he couldn't do a damn thing about it because he was just so paralyzed. He moaned and Nick threw a leg across him to straddle his hips, arching down to continue kissing his collarbone, his throat, his chest. Movement was utterly useless; he just lay there, trembling, drowning in maddening lust.

Nick's heart was going a mile a minute. The logical, reserved part of him that always kept its cool dissolved in fire, wondering as it went why the hell he hadn’t tried this earlier. He desperately wanted the mechanic's body, needed to fill him and fuck him into oblivion again and again and again...

But a single sentence guaranteed that his fantasy would remain just that, at least for tonight: _I ain't ready_.

Those three words were as binding as a contract to kill. Nick didn't even think; he just drew the line and refused to cross it, no matter how horny he was, so long as Ellis told him not to.

On the other hand, there was still an awful lot he could do before getting that far.

He tested the waters, slowly trailing a hand down past that slim waist and under the elastic band of the mechanic's borrowed pants. Ellis sucked in a startled breath, making the conman pause for fear of crossing the line; but after a few excruciating moments a callused hand fell to help push the clothing away.

_ Ho-lee shit _ , thought Nick in a passable imitation of a Georgian accent. _What the hell am I doing?_

Somehow, in all his fantasizing, he'd utterly failed to take biology into account. Essentially, too focused on fuck _ing_ rather than _getting_ fucked, he'd overlooked the fact that Ellis had the same equipment he did; so with the southerner finally bare before him Nick was completely thrown for a loop. He faltered and Ellis, panting, opened his eyes.

“'S wrong?” he asked, voice shaky with nerves and desire. His cheeks were flushed and his hands clenched the blankets into desperate ridges that pulled the cloth taut beside him.

The combination of sight and sound and feel of silky skin against his fingers abruptly overwhelmed Nick with a raging drive, an unstoppable compulsion to make Ellis feel _good_ , _so_ good, so absolutely fucking _amazing_ that his inhibitions were destroyed once and for all. He instantly knew what he had to do, and answered with a hungry growl.

“ _Nothing_.”

He swooped down to claim his partner's lips, simultaneously wrapping his hand around the rock-hard organ that had startled him in the first place. He felt the gasping moan in his own throat, and slowly slid his hand up and down while greedily exploring Ellis' yielding mouth. Very quickly his fingers grew slick and he grinned into the kiss, thumb gently rubbing at all the right places. The mechanic's wavering groans of pleasure vibrated in his chest.

Nick pulled his face away so fast that for a moment Ellis tried to make out with the air. He began to fall onto the pillows, but before he got there his muscles involuntarily flexed, bringing him back up with a shout. He stared in euphoric shock as Nick, black hair spiking in all directions, slowly lifted his head. Wide blue eyes were met by smoldering green before the northerner dipped again to take Ellis into his mouth. Liquid shudders instantly turned the younger man's bones to jelly and he collapsed with a helpless moan, instinctively bucking his hips for a better angle.

The unexpected increase of pressure nearly made Nick gag. He raggedly breathed through his nose and fought the reflex, swallowing around the thick shaft to resume a steady rhythm. Soon he could take more in, little by little, until he felt a smooth push all the way in the back of his throat – and realized he sort of liked it. Every move he made elicited more sounds of desperate bliss, each of which made his undignified position totally worth the shame. He fumbled at his shorts and freed his own cock with a groan, feeling the harsh buzz of need peak higher as he began to work himself too. His hand and mouth moved in sync, fast enough to build the trembling pleasure inside but slow enough to thoroughly enjoy it.

Remembering all the things he'd once paid Vegas whores to do, Nick swallowed more than his pride and started using his tongue. Ellis' salty, silky, solid shaft responded ecstatically to his swirling licks, twitching and pulsing under his lips and in his throat.

“Unnhh... _ohhh_ my _gawd_ , Niiick... _Ah_...! I'm...”

He was getting close, too, and frantically pumped his hand faster, harder, impossible heat surging up and down his dick. The fire was starting in the pit of his loins, growing and seizing control of all his muscles as it went. With a final cogent thought he grabbed Ellis with his other hand, pulling his mouth away to keep from biting down as the heavenly flames wrought delirious destruction on his universe. At that same instant Ellis cried out, body arced with white lightning as they fell together into the starry void.

Heavy breathing and howling wind were the only sounds in the room for a while. The two men stared at each other, panting, reluctantly coming down off their highs and wondering just what on god's green earth they were supposed to do now.

Finally Ellis started to laugh. It was quiet, barely a chuckle at first, but it soon got louder. Nick just watched, confused but happy, until with a limp wave in the general vicinity of his face the Georgian managed to speak.

“Nick, ya... ya got a lil' somethin', there...”

The conman released his grip on both of their fading erections and raised a hand to his cheek. Warm, slimy fluid glazed one side of his nose and was slowly seeping into his scruffy black stubble. He blinked in understanding, working the stress out of his jaw with a poker face to make Danny Ocean proud. Ellis just laughed harder.

“This is the thanks I get, huh? See if _that_ ever happens again,” Nick muttered with feigned annoyance, reached for a towel, then broke into a lopsided smile. “I guess I did good, eh, sport?”

The southerner's merriment quieted and he thought seriously about the question, propping himself back up on his elbows to watch Nick wipe the cum from his face.

“Yeah. Real good,” he eventually answered, and reclaimed his discarded boxers.

The older man raised an eyebrow at the Georgian's change of mood, but didn't trust himself to say anything yet. He felt a little giddy, and didn't want to upset the kid any more by being insensitive about something that might be troubling him. Instead he swirled some water around his mouth, not particularly thrilled with the aftertaste.

“Hey Nick?”

“Yeah?”

“Why'd’ja do that?”

The conman turned from the window and slumped against the wall for support – his legs were still a bit wobbly. Answering that question was going to be tricky, especially since he wasn't sure what Ellis wanted to hear right now... He shrugged.

“Because I wanted to?”

“That's bullshit an' you know it,” the mechanic said seriously. “I've met God-fearin' Texan truckers who'd suck dick sooner'n you.”

“There must be a lot of happy guys in Houston tonight,” Nick snarked, but backed off at the dangerous narrowing of Ellis' eyes – it seemed he wouldn't be able to charm his way out of sounding like a bastard. He pinched the bridge of his nose in consternation and sighed.

“Okay, look. I'm a greedy sonofabitch, all right? I want what you're not ready for, so... That's the farthest I could get without scaring you shitless.” He refused to admit that he'd ended up actually enjoying it, too.

Ellis was silent for a moment, listening to the storm. He wasn't unhappy, exactly; just re-evaluating his position, fighting through the exhausted fog of his mind to figure out where he stood. They were moving way faster than he’d expected, almost too fast for his comfort; but he was startled to discover that it was an exciting sort of uncomfortableness, like the pull of acceleration on a roller coaster. It was scary in a good way, so long as he didn't get bogged down in old prejudices. Hadn't he _just_ decided the other night to forget all that 'gay equals sin' shit? There wasn't any room for it in the apocalypse.

...And seriously, that blowjob had felt _amazing_.

But what now?

Well, they'd obviously both had fun, so it really didn't make any sense to stop now. And it would be damn unfair of him to not return the favor. It wasn't like he didn't know where they were going, eventually; it was just a matter of timing. Since Nick had promised to respect his limits – and Ellis trusted him – what was the harm in pushing them a little?

He looked up into worried green eyes, and smiled.

“I think too much,” he said quietly. “C'mon, let's get some shut-eye. Maybe next time it'll be yer turn, awright?”

Nick, who'd braced himself for a scolding, was pleasantly surprised. A lascivious smile crept up his face and he gladly came to bed, yanking off the stained blanket before collapsing onto the pillows. Ellis immediately snuggled up against him, and the conman swiftly raised his chin for a kiss.

“Aw, _hell_ naw, that's gross!” the younger man exclaimed, squirming away. “You know where yer mouth's _been_?” Nick laughed.

“Get used to it, kid,” he advised, but planted his lips on the southerner's forehead instead. Ellis muttered darkly to himself and moved to go turn off the light, but quickly thought better of it.

“I ain't touchin' that thing. It's prob'ly not gonna burn the place down... Here, this'll work.” He took the shade off the powerless bedside lamp and delicately hung it over the glowing bulb. The room was still fairly well-lit, but less glaringly so.

Nick sleepily watched his young lover return to bed and caught him up with a contented sigh. It seemed like a good idea to take the kid's advice – thinking too much was hazardous to his mental health. It was better to simply focus on the basic needs of life: food, water, firearms, and the warmth of another person beside him at night.

He let his gaze travel across Ellis' body, this time with simple affection; but once again it stuck on those light blue boxers with the speckled pattern. They were close enough now to properly see the design, and Nick chuckled quietly as he fell into a solid sleep.

_ Horses? That's fucking adorable. _


	12. Chapter 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Art provided by the lovely Draconica over at http://draconica.tumblr.com. She makes incredible GMods and you should most definitely go check her out!

If cleanliness was next to godliness, Rochelle wasn't quite an angel yet. She'd taken full advantage of the bathroom's amenities, but the mud was still ground in, under her nails and through her matted hair. Without a proper shower, one with real hot water pressure, it would never go away. She sighed wistfully and wrung out her clothes into the tub, impressed at the volume of water that splashed down onto the porcelain.

When she'd hung up her shirt and pants she heard sounds from upstairs, something that sounded like abruptly cut-off laughter. Smiling faintly, she wrapped herself in towels and went next door to a reasonably clean bedroom, where she found and lit an old oil lantern. There was a good-sized dresser against the far wall and she ransacked it, coming up with a too-large hooded sweatshirt and a pair of baggy cotton pants meant to go under the forest-camo jumpsuit that took up almost a whole drawer by itself.

She ate some canned stew and cleaned her firearms, just as attentive to water damage as her teammates had been. As soon as she finished she snatched up her rifle in defense – someone was crying.

_Shit, is there another witch in here?_

She crouched by the door and listened hard for a few tense moments, then relaxed with a frown. The low sobbing was coming from upstairs – from Ellis, it sounded like. She remembered the expression on his face when she'd brought him inside; he'd been close to tears, and she could only assume that his self-control had lapsed when they'd gotten a moment's down-time.

Instinct told her to go to him, make soothing noises and let him cry on her shoulder. Logic said that might be a bad idea. Nick, for whatever reason, was his lifeline now, and the poor boy still seemed embarrassed by the fact. Better to let the two of them commiserate and pretend she'd never heard a thing.

“Ro?” A knock sounded at the door as she examined the poorly-stocked bookshelf for something decent to read. “Baby girl, can I come in?”

“Of course,” she said, letting Coach inside. The big man had found a matching set of red flannel pajamas, two sizes too large even for him. It looked fairly comical.

“I think we got ourselves a problem,” he sighed uncomfortably, sitting on the edge of the bed and making the springs creak.

“You mean _besides_ the zombies and the storm and being stranded in Alabama?” Rochelle replied with good-natured sarcasm. Coach looked like he wasn't sure whether or not to be amused.

“Hear that?” he asked quietly, tilting his head to indicate the ceiling.

“Ellis is upset, I think Nick's with him. Why?”

“He _ain't_ upset,” the older man snarled with heavily suggestive disgust. Rochelle's eyebrow rocketed upwards.

“Oh, _really_...?”

“Really, Ro. The hell we gonna do with them two? That shit ain't right.”

“ _Do_?” she giggled wickedly. “Why should we _do_ anything?”

“You think this ain't gonna fuck up our chances? Girl, we are _soldiers_. The _team_ 's gotta come first; what's gonna happen when-”

A slightly louder, longer noise filtered down through the floor. It sounded like Nick's name. Rochelle stifled a cackle; Coach cringed.

“Oh, Coach, where's the harm?” the journalist said soothingly, patting him on the shoulder with a smile. “They've had a rough week and need to blow off steam. I'm just glad they're leaving _me_ out of it... And didn't you think it was hilarious when they were cuddling before?”

“The harm? Where's the _harm?_ ” Coach's voice rose enough to partially mask a very loud, very obvious groan from upstairs. His cheeks went darker than usual, and Rochelle snorted with suppressed laughter. “What if they start keepin' first aid for themselves, not sharin' with us? What if they have some kinda break-up, an' quit helpin' each other? What if they lose focus an' get us all killed? Not t' _mention_ how just plain... I thought Ellis'd know better! Boy got raised up in the Lord, didn't he?”

Rochelle sighed, smile fading. Of course a man like Coach would care about that.

“You know there's no place for fire and brimstone here,” she explained calmly. “So let's skate right by that part. As for the rest... Between the two of them, none of those things is going to be an issue.”

Coach made a disbelieving noise, and Rochelle got serious. The last thing their group needed was yet more internal tension.

“Think about it, Coach. Nick would never get distracted enough to put his own skin in danger. Ellis is too sweet to hoard supplies. And I refuse to believe a 'lover's quarrel' could be any worse than how they usually argue.”

That made him chuckle a bit, but his bearing was still ill-at-ease. Rochelle knew how strongly the southerner felt about things like sin and retribution, and that would carry over into his other points of concern. She chose her next words accordingly.

“We're just trying to survive out here, and that takes more than food and guns. We've got to stay sane, too. You saw Ellis before, the poor boy was killing himself. Now he's found a way to deal – Nick makes him feel better. And call me crazy, but I think he's actually a good influence on that obnoxious suit.” She rubbed at her face, hoping that was true. “You've got your faith, they've got each other. It's best for all of us if we leave it be.”

“What about you, baby girl?” Coach asked quietly. “What've you got?”

“Denial,” she answered with a forced grin. “Everyone knows zombies don't exist, and I'm gonna kill 'em until they know it, too.”

Her companion seemed sufficiently convinced, and laughed with only a little lingering unease. He slung an arm around her shoulders and gave her a protective half-hug, then stood and stretched with a yawn.

“Well, I ain't goin' in there t’ get them two for watch. Let's call this place a safehouse and get a full night.”

“No arguments here,” Rochelle said with a tired smile. “And I'll talk to Ellis in the morning. Maybe I can at least get them to be quieter.”

The flush returned to Coach's cheeks and he awkwardly inspected the ceiling, which was mercifully silent.

“D'you really think they'd be happy with us knowin'?”

“No, and I won't let them know we know. You go on and pretend it never happened, I'll handle this. Trust me.”

The southerner shook his head in surrender, and left to find a bed of his own.

* * *

 

_Jesus goddamn Christ, what the hell shit did you get your dumb ass into?_

A sick, unpleasant feeling crawled through his veins as he emptied the contents of the dresser onto the floor, looking for something to wear. Everything seemed to be made for somebody twice his size, but that wasn't why he was upset; he was furious with himself for losing control last night, and fiercely uncomfortable with the whole goddamn situation. Feeling all cuddly and shit must have been afterglow or something; he was a one-night-stand kind of guy, and had no idea how to handle anything that might last. And fucking _going down_ on the kid? It must have been the heat of the moment, because in the grey light of this drizzly dawn, it was more than his pride could take.

Scowling, Nick grabbed a t-shirt and jeans that looked less huge than the others and unceremoniously yanked them on. He needed his belt back, though, and as he threaded it through the pants he glared at the sleeping southerner sprawled beneath the sheets. He still thought Ellis was beautiful – and a part of him hated himself for it.

He found some hiking boots in the closet and a razor in the bathroom, shaving carefully to avoid cutting himself in his distracted state. Remembering his promise to Ellis at the last second, he composed himself at the top of the stairs and tried to tame his messily dried hair. He took a few deep breaths, and deliberately avoided stomping his way to the kitchen. When he got there, Rochelle was rummaging in the cabinets for non-perishable food. Coach was nearby, disposing of what had already perished.

“Morning, honey, what'll you have? We've got three kinds of- woah.” She looked up mid-sentence and stopped, eyes gone wide. Nick glared at her.

“What,” he rasped. Coffee; he needed coffee. Not that they had any way to brew it. Shit.

“You're... Um. Are you okay?”

“Fine,” he answered shortly, and started pawing through the goods in search of something palatable. Coach and Rochelle shared a glance he didn't see.

“Rough night?” she asked delicately.

Nick was too on edge to be surprised, and let autopilot spin him a cheap lie.

“All the water's ruined my fucking suit,” he muttered, trying not to snap at them. Amongst the dry goods he discovered a jar of instant espresso, and snatched it up with a harshly satisfied noise. Now he needed a fire.

“No need to take it out on us, son... or that chair...” Coach said evenly as the techy conman started breaking one down for the wood. With bare hands, it just wasn't working; and that only ticked him off further, damaging his already strained façade.

“In case you hadn't noticed, it's still fucking raining- _tits_ ,” he snarled, checking a finger for splinters before resuming the attack. He was starting to lose it, anger at himself bubbling to the surface in spite of his efforts to keep it contained. “Maybe _you're_ happy eating like dogs, but I am going to have a _real_ breakfast with fucking _coffee_ , and if I have to tear down the whole fucking place to do it, I will. Shit!” He recoiled, a large sliver of wood visibly stuck in his palm. He tore it out with his teeth and spat it on the floor, then turned to grab a napkin to stem the flow of blood. As he pressed it to the wound he heard an impressive, shattering _CCRRAKK._

He spun around. The chair lay in fragments, pale wood showing from behind the dark varnish. Over it stood Ellis, damp but fully dressed, looking over his FUBAR with satisfaction. Nick managed to repair his defensive poker face, seething inside, and picked up a few pieces of tinder with proper respect for the sharp bits.

“Thanks, Overalls,” he muttered, and began to build a fire in the oven.

Ellis was taken aback. Nick hadn't called him “Overalls” since the day before they entered the woods - since the night he'd gotten drunk.

“Sweetie, can I talk to you for a minute?” Rochelle asked gently. The mechanic nodded, still looking with confusion at the inexplicably aggravated conman.

 _Last night was a bad plan after all,_ he thought sadly as he followed the journalist into the hall. _He ain't just pretendin', ta hide what we did – he's seriously pissed. But it was his idea ta start with... The hell?_

“Ellis, honey, is everything okay?” Rochelle asked once they were out of earshot. “I heard you crying last night... I'd have tried to help, but Nick was with you. I know you two support each other now, but is there anything _I_ can do?”

The mechanic's unease suddenly gave way to full-on panic, only barely under control. She'd heard them!

“Uh... It's the rain, bad memories... I'm fine, Ro, really.” Saying it out loud made it a little more of a true statement; but he was lying by omission again, and it was uncomfortable. He trembled on the verge of bolting for the stairs, and said it again to reassure himself. “I'm fine.”

Rochelle saw that her message had gotten across and felt a little bad for giving him such a scare. She put a calming hand on his shoulder and decided to forgo asking about Nick's strange behavior.

 _Though now I think of it, this is more like how he acted when we all first met,_ she considered. That meant Ellis really was a good influence, but... _How on earth did we manage to put up with him this long?_

“You know you can talk to me, right? None of us wants you to be upset.”

“Y... yeah, Ro, thanks. I just need somethin' ta eat, I guess.”

They returned to the kitchen, where Nick was warming a mug of water. Coach stood as far away from him as possible, staring thoughtfully out the window. Breakfast was a sullen, silent affair that reflected the weather outside. Though the worst of the storm seemed to have passed, the sky was still an iron grey and a miserable drizzle spat unpleasantly. It wasn’t optimal for traveling in, and though they’d put up with worse back in Georgia, nobody suggested moving out.

Nick downed his instant coffee in three huge gulps and wondered just how much it would hurt to ingest the caffeinated powder directly. It probably wasn't worth it. And if he wanted to have any more later – if he found a way to brew it – he would have to ration it out. He grimaced and picked up some canned fruit instead.

The fire, having only a single chair for fuel, didn't last very long, but before it died it warmed the room a touch. Only the accompanying drop in humidity was welcomed; the air was sticky and already quite warm enough, thank you. The atmosphere, on the other hand, swung wildly between frigid and feverish depending on who was looking at whom. Coach wanted to throw up his hands and walk away from the whole thing – the table, the apocalypse, the drama, all of it – but he knew he was stuck. He gave Rochelle a Significant Glance, a secret “I told you so” referring to the apparent schism between the two younger men. She met his gaze and shook her head slightly, not convinced the situation was unsalvageable. Coach rolled his eyes and sighed, but let the matter drop.

When they were finished eating they found ways to kill time until the weather cleared up. Rochelle and Coach each collected an armful of books from the den and retreated to their respective bedrooms to read. Nick took over the pool table when they left, hitting the balls a tad more viciously than necessary until the game calmed him down. He had to admit that even boarded up and fortified this country lodge was quite a nice place, and as he sank shot after shot he toyed with the idea of just staying put. With a house like this it was no wonder that old guy hadn't left.

The caffeine and the diversion had improved his mood tremendously by the time he noticed his audience, but he was still surprised. His next shot was too forceful and went wide, scattering his perfect arrangement of billiards every which way across the green felt.

“Tits,” he muttered, and straightened from his bent position to bring the cue back to his side. “What is it, kid?”

“Ain't never played b'fore,” Ellis half-mumbled. “Think y'could teach me?”

Nick blinked twice before the unexpected request registered – he'd been bracing himself for an altogether more awkward question.

“Uh, sure. Grab a cue.”

The mechanic did as he was told, and his instructor cleaned off the table. They got through an explanation of the rules and a short demonstration of how to shoot, then Nick sat back with arms crossed to watch Ellis practice hitting one ball with the other. Before too long his eyes began to stray.

 _Oh, son of a bitch,_ he groaned internally, and massaged his forehead. The movement also blocked his perfect view of the bent-over mechanic's ass. _You knew that was coming, goddammit, why'd you agree to this?_

He fought himself for a while. Anger spawned of shame wanted to take it all back - all the confessions, the hugs, the hand-holding, everything. Reflexive hatred was still deeply ingrained in him, hatred of all he had become: soft, weak, easily distracted, dependent on others... and worst of all, out of control. Not only did Ellis seem to have a knack for making him act on impulse, but being on the other end of a blowjob felt too much like being someone’s bitch. He shuddered and swallowed hard, trying to dispel the phantom feeling that there was still something foreign in his throat.

“Uh, Nick?”

“Gah, what?” He jerked out of his thoughts to see Ellis bouncing his cue over his shoulder impatiently, a look of concern on his face.

“What's eatin' ya? I thought’cha had fun last night but now yer bein' all prickly again.” An adorable tinge of red touched his cheeks as he spoke. Nick gave up trying to appear unfazed; it clearly wasn't working as a defense anyway.

“I don't know,” he sighed resentfully. “Maybe I'm not as comfortable with this as I thought.”

“Havin' regrets?” the mechanic asked seriously, putting aside the cue.

“Sort of.”

“Well that's just too bad, 'cuz I'm not,” Ellis said with a direct gaze. “'S matter a' fact I was hopin' for s'more time t'night. Now I ain't so scared, it could be a lotta fun.”

Well, _that_ sure as hell changed the game; Nick’s lust came involuntarily alive, and he felt his doubts begin to give way as he considered what else his partner might be willing to do now. He licked his lips.

“Really.”

“'Course if ya got second thoughts I guess it can wait.”

“But it's not... Oh, hell.” The northerner suddenly chuckled dryly. “Pride goes before a fall, eh champ? I thought I'd have to slow down for you. Looks like it's gonna be the other way 'round.”

“Sure, ironic as shit,” the younger man drawled. He leaned back on his arms against the table like he was about to jump up and take a seat. “So where are we?”

 _Good question_ , Nick thought, viewing the pose with sudden hunger. _Not where I want to be, that's for damn sure._

“Right about where we started,” he said out loud, taking a cautious step forward. “Only now we both have to listen for 'stop.' I trust you can handle that.”

“A' course,” Ellis replied with a slow smile that made the conman shiver. “So assumin' we ain't runnin' for our lives t'night...”

“It's a date,” Nick purred, swiftly crossing the remaining distance between them. He wedged his leg between the Georgian's and leaned in, forcing Ellis to complete his hop up onto the felted surface. With energy born of desire the conman followed to kneel on the table over him and pin down both of the younger man's arms. In an instant their lips were locked together.

“Mm- one thing,” the southerner panted when he managed to break away. “Rochelle, she... she heard us... Thought I was cryin', but still... In general, we should prob'ly be qui-” He was stifled by another kiss, a hot silk tongue that twined deliciously around his own.

“Then shut up, Overalls,” Nick breathed, drawing back for a moment. “Unless you want something else in your mouth...”

Ellis shivered, eagerness and apprehension visibly mixing on his face. He bit his lip, blushing.

“M... maybe... But later, okay? Later... C'mere.” His powerful muscles flexed and he sat up in spite of Nick's weight, freeing his hands. With one he pulled the conman's face close; the other slid under his borrowed green t-shirt and began exploring his back.

Nick closed his eyes and made a low noise of pleasure as their mouths found each other again.

* * *

 

Coach was getting restless; he didn't like staying still for so long. He felt the need to hurry onwards in the hope of finding evac, despite the sinking feeling that New Orleans would be abandoned long before they arrived. The itch to move made it hard to focus on his copy of Peyton Manning's biography, which he eventually tossed carelessly onto the bed. He knew all the stats by heart anyway.

His clothes were a wreck, and still damp from the ambient humidity, so he wasted a few minutes digging through the lodge's supply of hunting apparel. Miraculously he found a respectable selection that was more or less his size, and soon he'd decked himself out in dark tan cargo pants, a fresh purple collared tee, and a dull orange padded vest with lots of pockets. He allowed himself to indulge in a few moments with a mirror before sighing heavily and starting to prowl around the house.

Sharp clatters reached his ears as he inventoried the blessedly well-stocked armory for the third time. Curious, he followed the sound back to the den, where he found his male teammates engaged in a game of eight-ball. Thankfully the conman, looking mighty strange without his suit, seemed to be in a much better frame of mind than he had been earlier.

“Hey, Coach – nice outfit! Check this out, man, Nick says I'm gettin' the hang of it!” Ellis enthusiastically waved his countryman over to the table and assumed the position, elbow levered back in preparation to take a shot.

Coach flickered a tiny glance at Nick, who gave him an infinitesimal nod as if in apology. Somewhat reassured, the older man watched the mechanic aim down his cue, tongue poking from the corner of his mouth in concentration. He squeezed one eye shut as he appraised his angle, then abruptly jabbed the ivory ball and sent it rocketing into a group of three solids. The one he'd been aiming for disappeared into a side pocket with a dull noise, but the other two went flying off in opposite directions. Ellis hissed in annoyance as his red clipped one of his opponent's stripes, which ricocheted off the wall and sank into a corner. Nick chuckled and moved to where he'd take his turn.

“Two steps ahead, kiddo. You have to think about _all_ the balls that are going to move, not just your cue and target.”

“I'm workin' on it,” the mechanic grumbled, straightening up with a frown.

“Watch,” Nick ordered, bending over the table. “See the line from here to twelve? Where's it gonna go?”

“Umm, it's gonna hit this one an' this one.” Ellis indicated which billiards he meant.

“Good, and were will _those_ go?”

“Uhhh...” The youngest seemed stymied, tilting his head back and forth to visualize it. “The green one's gonna... hit the wall over here?”

Nick nodded. “And the red one, number three?”

“I dunno, twelve's gonna bounce offa fourteen somehow.”

“Not just 'somehow,' hotshot, you've got to be able to see it. Pay attention.” The pool shark barely took any time to set up his shot, merely drawing back his arm and squinting a bit before launching the cue straight into ball number twelve. In turn the dark blue projectile slammed into fourteen with a sharp _clack_ , changing course slightly to clip number nine. In the space of a few seconds number twelve had sunk, number fourteen was teetering on the edge, and number three had nudged two more of Nick's stripes into a side pocket. Ellis whistled in amazement, studying the table in an effort to mentally recreate the shot.

“Damn, boy, remind me never t'play wit’chu for money,” Coach muttered, impressed. The conman gave a mocking bow.

“Thank you, thank you, I'm here all week.”

“Now that's somethin' we gotta talk about,” the older man said seriously. “We can't sit on our asses here forever. I'm thinkin' we should ship out soon, even if it's still rainin'.”

“Why?” Nick asked in a reasonable tone, casually fiddling with his cue. “This place is comfortable, safe, and full of supplies – practically luxury. Why not just wait for better weather?”

“In case y'all hadn't noticed, we're still tryin' t'get outta this shit.” Coach crossed his arms to give his words weight. “The longer we spend dawdlin', the more likely we'll never get picked up. An' I ain't livin' like this forever.”

Something dark flashed in the conman's eyes, and he lowered his voice until its rough growl made the air itself shiver.

“You really think they're still waiting, big man? This hasn't been about rescue for a long time.”

The older man tried to suppress the surge of fear the words elicited – what if the suit was right? - but before he could come up with a reply there was a loud clatter from the pool table.

“Hah!” Ellis triumphantly shouldered his cue. He hadn't been listening; he'd been judging angles. Two of his solids bounced off the wall and sank, but his celebrations were premature. His broad grin faded as the men watched the cue-ball slooowwwllyy fail to stop, teeter on the edge of a pocket, and fall in like a brilliant golf putt. Nick smirked.

“You scratched,” he informed his student smoothly. “I'll collect your forfeit later.”

“Aw, shit,” Ellis muttered, rubbing the back of his neck before starting to retrieve the sunken balls. “Two outta three?”

“Not if we're hittin' the road, son,” Coach interjected, turning back to the northerner and very deliberately not thinking about what sort of “forfeit” he'd be claiming from the mechanic. “We should have a big lunch an' get outta here. The goin's gonna be easier for a while, there should be a decent trail leadin' t'this place from the nearest town. Then we'll keep movin' west.”

Nick fingered the tip of his cue and reached for the chalk, lazily applying it without taking his eyes from the older man. His knowing green gaze bored into Coach's head, making him second-guess himself for a moment.

“Let's not decide without Rochelle,” the pool shark said dismissively, finally turning to re-rack the billiards. “Your break, ace.”

Coach felt the sick tendrils of doubt wrap hotly around his throat. He silently watched the younger men play a few turns, then went in search of his surrogate sister. Maybe talking things out with her would make their path clearer.


	13. Chapter 13

“Hear that, Coach? Do you hear what I'm _not_ saying?”

Fully armed and equipped, the survivors trudged through gradually thinning trees as more rain began to fall on their heads. They'd left the hunting lodge after lunch, in a light drizzle, with much grumbling on Nick's part. Ellis had switched allegiance when Rochelle sided with Coach; but the bad weather had unexpectedly returned, wind and all, and now all three of them were subject to the conman's somewhat justified bad temper.

“Let him be, man, we all just wanna get outta here,” the mechanic muttered, trying to ease the tension and avoid a noisy argument.

“No, I was right. _I told you so_.”

“I _got_ it, boy! You gonna harp on this all day?”

“ _Yes_ , because the rain's gonna get us swarmed by infected soon and it's your wishful thinking that made us leave a perfect goddamn _fortress_!”

“Oh, so you'd rather just sit on yo' Yankee ass an' rot?”

“I'd rather _think_ before doing something pointlessly idiotic, dumbshit!”

“ _Gentlemen_!”

Rochelle spun to face the bickering pair, aiming her rifle at them menacingly with an expression that could have turned Medusa to stone. Nick, of course, merely looked scornful.

“Don't give me that, cupcake, you were on his side.”

“Don't call me cupcake, Colonel Sanders,” she snapped, jabbing him with the barrel of her gun. “This is where we are, and we're not going back. We deal with what's in front of us, like _grown-ups_ , or we die. Are we clear?”

Coach nodded stiffly, but the conman sneered. His finally-dry clothes were getting wet again, the straps of his overstuffed bag cut into his shoulders, he had no idea where they'd be sleeping tonight or if he'd get any more time alone with Ellis – and he was pissed.

“Crystal,” he snarled. “But you all better realize how stupid it is to count on CEDA, or the military, or _any_ body to pick us up. We could've started sprinting the second we met, we could run twenty-four-seven from here to Louisiana – _no-one_ is going to save us.”

Wind-whipped rain spattered between them, the silence heavy and hopeless. Ellis tentatively reached for Nick's arm, hoping to lighten his mood, but the conman strode away before he made contact.

“If we're going, let's go. I'm not sleeping outside tonight.”

His teammates hesitated, then followed with resignation. Ellis bit at his lip, worried, but held his tongue for the moment. The horizon was visible now and edged with angular, greyish shapes – when they made it to town and found somewhere to wait out the storm, they'd have time to talk.

“Spitter,” Rochelle muttered, raising her gun and squinting through the rain. “Green thing right over... Oh, crap, I lost it.”

“Move,” Nick grunted, slowing down to bring the scope to his eye. He marked the acidic color far to their right and tracked it, channeling his anger to focus on the task; but just as he was about to squeeze the trigger, the creature disappeared into the fog. He hissed, seething, and accidentally jostled Coach while turning around.

“Ex _cu_ se me? Ain't no call for that, boy!”

The larger man's indignant, superior attitude continued to grate on the conman's nerves. He grit his teeth, determined not to say anything that would start a shouting match; but Coach must have taken his silence as an insult.

“You got a lotta balls, son, an' I've had just about enough of yo' attitude. You made yo' point, now get over it!”

“ _My_ attitude?” Nick spun angrily to face him, unable to hold back anymore. “How's about _your_ attitude, you pompous old assclown? Running us ragged over hell and creation like you think we’ve got something to live for? Father hasn't known best since the goddamn sixties, and while I know you remember those days fondly that kind of shit doesn't do us any good!”

“Uh, guys...” Rochelle' voice went unheard as she and Ellis stared at the older men in disbelief. Behind them an unsettling sound was growing, but their fighting comrades didn't notice.

“Who the hell're you t'tell me how ta act? Last I checked you ain't got the greatest track record-”

“Oh, so you're gonna bring _that_ back up?”

“Yes I am, mister I-want-everything!”

“That's _too far_!”

“SHUT UP!”

Ellis' bellow made his teammates fall silent, but there was more than just storm-sound in the air when their voices faded. An all-too-familiar roar reached them from the city, echoing across the empty field that separated them from shelter.

“For cryin' out loud, guys, what the hell's wrong wit'chu?” the mechanic yelled angrily, bringing up his gun. “Ain't it s'posed ta be _me_ makin' a racket?”

Any reply from the others was lost in the crackle of gunfire. They had to get into town, into a saferoom or basement or _anything_ ; so they braced themselves and ran towards the horde, aiming for the structures beyond. They took their fury out on the infected, but more and more were attracted by the noise as they fought their way across the empty field.

For a time they kept a ring of clear ground around them, easily mowing down anything within the radius; but as their rhythmic calls of “reloading!” grew more frequent, it got harder to cover for each other. Before they were halfway across the lot Ellis slung his rifle onto his back and drew his FUBAR to crush the putrid skulls that were now within arm's reach. The more violent physical motion relieved a good deal of tension in his chest and he roared right back at the zombies, loving the power in his arms, not noticing the flecks of blood that flew from his pulverized targets onto his face and into his open mouth.

Nick had traded his nine-mil for a pair of Desert Eagles back at the lodge, and blasted huge holes in every walking corpse he hit. He imagined blowing Coach's sanctimonious head off whenever he did the same to a zombie, a twisted rictus of a grin plastered on his face. The exercise quickly became a vent for more than just his anger at the older Georgian; it felt like every bit of frustration he'd been carrying around for god-knows-how-long was flowing down his arms and into the powerful kickback of his Magnums. He saw faces in the horde that couldn't possibly be there: not only Coach but also his father, his ex-wife, the slimy Italian bastards he'd once worked for – and even, a few times, himself. He killed them all, laughing maniacally with every gruesome impact.

“Oh, SHIT!” screamed Rochelle as she felled an ex-construction worker. Behind him there was a gap in the crowd, and through it she could see a Big Problem. “Tank, boys! TANK!”

Coach glanced in her direction and marked the huge pink thing, lumbering towards them with no thought for the smaller infected in the way. His simmering anger at Nick was immediately submerged in the cold clarity of emergency command, and he made a grab for the pipe bomb on his hip.

“Cover me!” he ordered, and on his left the conman used his double pistols to guard two directions at once. The older man tripped the grenade's mechanism and pitched it as hard as he could, drawing the easily-distracted zombies away from them and towards the chirping explosive.

“Fire in the hole!”

With the weaker infected otherwise occupied – _BOOM_ – make that dead, the survivors had a clear shot at the giant monster headed their way. Unfortunately for them there was nothing in this unpaved field for it to throw, so instead of obligingly standing still, it started to chase them.

“Spread out!” yelled Nick, backing away. “We need crossfire!”

He, Rochelle, and Coach formed a loose triangle around the beast, firing madly, pausing only to reload or fight off more commons that were being attracted by the fight.

“Shit shit shit shit shit....” Ellis chanted, fumbling to put his melee weapon away. He was forced to drop it by a disgusting gurgling noise he picked up over the rain; instead he drew his pistol like lightning to pop the boomer, so close he was barely a foot out of its splash-zone. Its rank remains made him want to puke, but they had a happy side effect: the rest of the infected harassing his teammates came swarming, and as they did so he could mow them down with the rifle he finally got off his back.

All too soon the noxious pheromones began to wear off. Ellis couldn't stay where he was anymore, and as he glanced towards his friends he saw that they could use another hand. With sudden inspiration he cleared himself a bit of breathing room, then simultaneously put away his gun and grabbed his adrenaline from his pocket. Just as smoothly he swooped to collect his FUBAR from the ground and plunged the needle into his chest with an agonized yelp.

Suddenly the world was in slow-motion. He gasped as the need to run seized him and he took off, laying about him left, right, and center. The infected fell like wheat before the scythe as he mowed a path towards the main battle. The tinny voices of his friends echoed in his ears, but their commands didn't register through the rush of blood and lightning. He just ran, body on fire, ready to beat the ever-loving-shit out of the monster that was currently – oh _fuck_ , Nick was down, and the thing was getting ready to smash his head in, and the adrenaline was peanuts compared to the primal rage that abruptly overwhelmed his system and tore out his throat with a demented scream:

“ _I'LL FUCKIN' KILL YOU!_ ”

“Stop! Stop shooting!” Coach heard Rochelle cry as the manic mechanic sprinted headlong at their target. The older man jerked his rifle aside just in time, pumping lead into a jockey instead of his teammates. The nasty little creature fell, twitching, too far away for him to hear its mad laughter.

“What the fuck're you doing?” he hollered, but his young countryman either didn't notice or didn't care. Either way the answer fast became apparent: he vaulted onto the tank's back, distracting it from its prey, and viciously started using the pickaxe head of his weapon.

 

He spiked it deep into the twisted muscle over and over until his aim improved, and with a sickening, splattering _crack_ the creature's skull exploded. Gore burst across his coveralls, and he staggered as the mountainous corpse collapsed beneath him.

Coach would have kept staring had a dry wheeze not sounded close behind. Reflexively he whipped around and fired, sending the unnatural thing up in green smoke that made him hack and cough. He quickly moved into cleaner air, gulping the rain down along with it in an effort to clear his lungs. Then he had to take care of a few more commons, and a hunter that nearly jumped Rochelle while she dealt with a charger, and in all the pandemonium he completely failed to see Ellis and Nick, shaking with relief, kissing each other fiercely over the limp body of the tank.

“Jesus Christ, kid, I thought you didn't want them to see?” the conman gasped when his savior released his lips.

“Whatever,” the mechanic muttered hoarsely, already coming down from his inhuman high. “I just- It was gonna kill ya, an'... Shit.” He sheathed his FUBAR, reloaded his rifle, and scanned the area for more targets. There were only a few, which he summarily shot.

“You know what, El? You're really something else,” chuckled Nick, still a little breathless. He leisurely swapped his empty magazines for full ones and slit his eyes against a gust of wind, spotting the others nearby. Coach caught his gaze and a tension returned to his mind. Ellis didn't notice.

“Do I wanna know what’cha mean by that?” the younger man asked when he was satisfied that the battle was won. The northerner turned back to him, eyes smoldering green coals in his rain-slick face.

“I mean that was a pretty incredible thing you just did, killer,” he said, low and passionate. “Remind me to explain properly later.”

He couldn't admit it with the others watching, but the sight of Ellis going berserk in his defense had taken his breath away. Even pinned beneath the tank's mutated fist he'd seen the mechanic rearing furiously above him, and it had made his heart race with more than just terror. He'd been relieved, of course, the kid saved his life; but the power Ellis had unleashed was far more than just impressive. Now more than ever Nick wanted to take him, claim him, forget the world and forge themselves a little piece of heaven right here in the mud.

Of course that wasn't going to happen.

“Is everybody all right?” Rochelle asked anxiously as she and Coach joined them. At the sound of her voice Ellis' huge blue eyes broke free from the conman's hypnotizing gaze, and he shivered. Only Nick could tell it wasn't because of the rain.

“I'm fine, Ro. How 'bout’chu, y’all need any patchin' up?”

“We're good, son, we ain't the one who got in the way,” rumbled Coach with a pointed look at Nick.

“No cracked ribs,” the northerner said, breathing deep to make sure. “Let's get the hell out of here before we have to do that again.”

“An' no more arguin', got it?” Ellis told them both firmly, and gestured at the large corpse nearby. “Or so help me, I'll do ta you what I did ta _that._ ”

Rochelle glanced down at the messily decapitated zombie and shuddered.

“That might be excessive, sweetie. I think they've learned their lesson – right, boys?”

The older men seemed to size each other up briefly before refocusing their attention on the surroundings. Neither answered. The journalist gave a gentle snort, irritated and somewhat amused by how much the two of them were acting like rival tomcats; but seeing as nobody else was inclined to speak at the moment, she propped a no-nonsense fist on her hip and took charge of the situation.

“Well, just in case you haven't... Nick, you're with me, I need to talk to you. Ellis, keep an eye on Coach.”

The men raised confused eyebrows behind her back as she walked away – that wasn't how they usually split up. But Nick knew from the look on her face that it would be a bad idea not to listen, so he followed with a grimace. When a woman said she needed to talk...

The two Georgians were left to trail along behind. Ellis' wild surge of berserk energy was completely gone by now and had taken most of his regular energy with it, which made it awfully hard to keep dragging his heavy boots through the increasingly deep mud. The knowledge that shelter was close kept him from zoning out, but Coach's low, rough voice still startled him.

“There's somethin' you oughta know, boy.”

Ellis blinked tiredly at him, for a moment not registering the grave tone behind the words.

“Whuss wrong?” he mumbled. Coach glanced darkly at their teammates, who were distracted with their own discussion, before continuing.

“I wasn't gonna say anythin', but with the way he's been actin' t'day...” He sighed. “You better watch yo'self around him, son. That bastard's gonna take everythin' you got if you let him.”

The mechanic was too exhausted to panic but quite close regardless, and gaped openly until a gust of wind blew cold rain into his mouth.

“Wuzzat s'posed ta mean?” was the only question that made it past his lips. He seemed to be asking it a lot lately.

“Don't go gettin'... _involved_ , y'know what I'm sayin'?” Coach rubbed a hand over his head, slicking a sheet of water from his bald crown. “I know y'all been helpin' each other through shit, but if Nick... if he...”

“If he what, Coach?” prompted Ellis nervously when the older man appeared hesitant to continue.

“If he hurts you, or... _breaks yo' heart_ , in a manner a' speakin'...” the footballer muttered, making his young companion turn beet red. “We can't afford ta lose you, Ellis, an' believe me – I seen plenty a' kids on my team completely forget how ta play the game 'cuz a girl hurt 'em somehow. But where we at ain't no high-school scrimmage, boy. This here's war. An' there's a reason the Army don't let family serve t'gether.”

Ellis hardly felt that his feet had stopped sinking into the earth, and barely heard the new sound of his steps on concrete. He was utterly mortified, and Coach noticed.

“Awright, I know, it's awkward as shit,” he haltingly conceded. “But given our current situation, I'm... I'm willin' ta overlook that part an' consider you just the same as any kid needin' relationship advice. An' my advice is, keep some a' yo'self back. If somethin' happens ta ruin whatever it is you got, we can't have you breakin' down. Understand?”

Ellis nodded mutely, still trying to wrap his head around the fact that _Coach knew_. More surprising, he knew and _wasn't freaking out_.

“Good,” the older man said firmly, looking around. The buildings were closer now, and they'd have to keep a sharper eye out for danger. “Oh, an' one other thing,” he added, turning a bit darker around the cheeks. “Keep y'all's PDA outta sight. I gotta accept what's outta my control, but that don't mean I wanna be seein' - or hearin’ - it every time I turn around.”

Ellis cringed and squeezed his eyes tightly shut against a fresh burst of rain. He couldn't get his worn-out mind in order, and instinctively stuck a hand into his pocket before he remembered that he'd used up the last of his adrenaline. A heavy sigh escaped him.

“Man, I'm too tired ta handle this right now,” he said on the edge of a whine. “Can we put this off, least-ways 'til mornin' when I can think straight?”

“Like I said, son, I'm awright with lookin' the other way,” Coach replied.

They fell silent, scanning opposite sides of the street for zombies or a saferoom door.

Meanwhile the subject of their discussion was walking two meters ahead, having a whispered but fierce argument with Rochelle.

“What the hell is wrong with you today?” she demanded, but didn't give him a chance to speak. “The minute you stop fighting with Ellis, you start picking on Coach – and that's even _less_ fun to deal with. I understand you're upset about leaving, and I freely admit you were right, but that doesn't mean you can go telling every zombie in ten miles where we are! Not to mention your little tantrum this morning - and don't go trying to tell me about your suit, because that's bullshit.”

“Christ, I get it, I get it!” Nick snapped, extra-aggravated by the steadily worsening weather. “Are you done lecturing me already?”

“Are _you_ done throwing childish hissy fits?” Rochelle retorted. “Look, I'm not blind – _or_ deaf. If what's going on between you and Ellis is the problem, then you better start staying the _hell_ away from him, because as awful as it sounds, I'll take sad Ellis over unstable Nick any day.”

He very nearly shot her.

“Keep your nose out of my goddamn business, cupcake. Go scold Coach, he's the one who kept arguing when I tried to keep my mouth shut!”

“It's _all_ of our 'goddamn business,' suit! What you're doing and how you're acting is seriously cutting into our chances here – you should know better than anyone what our odds are!”

“Don't talk to me about odds. Fuck, just don't talk to me!”

“Not until you _listen_ , mister! Look at yourself, you're _sulking_! Now, I don't know the details of what you guys did last night – and I don't want to – but it's completely obvious you're not comfortable swinging that way-”

“Shut up.”

“Not until you _get over it_. Have your existential crises by yourself, when we're _not_ trying to avoid getting killed.”

Nick would never admit that she'd hit the nail on the head. He glanced sidelong at her as she prowled the streets, far-too-sharp eyes questing for danger.

 _How the fuck does she do that?_ he wondered. _Seeing right through me... I must be getting rusty._

The conman snarled into the wind and nursed a white-hot fury, while at the same time knowing full well that it was pointless.

In heavy silence the survivors approached a part of town that had been damaged by fire and rioting. They'd apparently cleared out quite a bit of the place when they'd attracted the horde, so up until that point there were few infected around. When they'd gotten through a run-down residential area and could vaguely make out the shadow of the interstate lurking under the clouds, they turned left, into what passed for the urban center. Then they needed to keep a close eye out, both for threats and for appropriate shelter; but it was getting dark, and spotting anything through the weather was a trick and a half. The infected they did see were aggressive, driven mad by the storm that was steadily growing worse.

A purple-white strobe of light flashed directly over them, followed immediately by quite a loud _CRACK_ of thunder. Animalistic howling rose from the surrounding buildings and the survivors tightened their formation, guns at the ready. Nothing happened until another flash of lightning illuminated the area, and Coach shot out a hand.

“Safe house!” he had to yell over another of Nature's drumrolls. The cry galvanized the group with its promise of shelter and protection; but some nearby infected heard it, too, and came running. Three out of four survivors rapidly made for the red-and-steel doorway, but Ellis was too tired to react in time. A half-dismembered man took a swipe at his face and he staggered backwards, inches from losing an eye. Then his attacker's head disintegrated with a sound more powerful than the thunder.

“Come on, _move_!”

Nick grabbed the exhausted mechanic by the arm, firing two more shots to cover them as they fled. He didn't let go when his companion found his feet; he merely shifted his grip, and the two of them came barreling into the CEDA-fortified bunker hand in hand. Coach slammed the door behind them, and Rochelle took to picking zombies off through the bars.

“Oof,” Ellis grunted, dropping all his gear and sitting hard on the ground. “Thanks, Nick...”

“Don't mention it,” the conman growled, removing his own pack to wring out his jacket. A heavy splash of dirty water oozed from the cloth and left a puddle on the slick concrete.

“Let's not get too cozy yet,” Coach warned, but with less authority in his voice than usual. He took off his backpack but kept his rifle, and went to case their new digs.

This safehouse was a converted garage, much to Ellis' delight. The main area was split into two large rooms, empty of cars, but housing rank upon rank of shelves that stood laden with tools and useful supplies. Thankfully there was the requisite stock of grimy blankets and suspicious-looking mattresses, as well – sleeping on the smooth concrete floor of a mechanic's shop was far from comfortable, a fact Ellis knew from experience. There was also a dingy back room with a semi-functional toilet, and a small basement that still contained a few dozen neatly-stacked tires. The whole place smelled like steel, grease, and rubber.

No unwanted guests dwelt in their newfound lodgings, and an awkward tension still hung in the air, so the four split along party lines to dry off and get some sleep. Nick and Ellis took one side of the garage, leaving Coach and Rochelle with the other.

“I'm worried about them,” the journalist sighed as she stripped down her rifle. “Things were going so well, and all of a sudden...”

“It's like I told you, baby girl,” Coach replied, digging out a can of soup for dinner. “Copin' mechanism or not, them two's gonna get us killed.”

“I hope you're wrong.” Rochelle lifted a magazine and dully watched the water drain from it.

“Lissen, I gotta tell you, I'm startin' to wonder if you weren't right about Nick from the git-go,” the big man said quietly, and took a sip of split-pea-with-ham. Rochelle raised an eyebrow.

“Right in what sense?” she asked, laying aside her weapon for the moment.

“Him bein' dangerous. A couple nights ago, back in the woods when we were on watch t'gether, we sorta got inta discussin' things...” He grumbled a bit, reluctant to continue, but his sister-in-spirit trained her eye on him intensely.

“Now isn't that interesting,” she commented. “I had a nice long talk with Ellis that night.”

“An' what'd he tell you?”

“Uh, why don't you go first.”

They sat quietly for a few seconds, then a tiny smile perked up the corner of Coach's mouth.

“Ain't this some crazy shit?” he muttered, slowly shaking his head. “I'm thinkin' you an' me oughta start from the beginnin', get all our facts t'gether. Then maybe we need ta have another group meetin' an' straighten ourselves out.”

Rochelle saw the truth in his words, but wasn't swayed from her original point of interest. She picked up an old rag and started to dry off her gun, keen brown eyes still locked on those of her ally.

“I agree. But first, tell me what Nick said.”

* * *

 

On the other side of the flimsy plywood wall, the two younger men performed their own tasks. Ellis alternated between tending his weapons and nearly inhaling a can of cold beans; Nick was calming himself down by cleaning his sniper rifle.

The conman sorted his thoughts as meticulously as the tiny springs and screws under his fingers. When his cold, calculating mind regained control over his rage he automatically started to analyze it; but before he could properly begin the magnificent image of Ellis rampant surfaced once more. The only logical thing he could manage was to isolate the part of his anger directed towards himself, and quash it. Being indecisive was nothing to beat himself up over – especially since the mechanic's actions were helping him to feel more and more sure of things.

“You did good out there, El,” he said in a low voice. “How're you feeling?”

The southerner looked up from his work and smiled. Food and rest were fast replenishing his energy, and as it came back he grew more curious about what Nick had said before – as well as nervously eager to follow up on the morning's promise. Coach's words of warning, however, were already forgotten.

“I'm just fine,” he replied cheerfully, then dropped his tone to something a bit more intimate.  “But how 'bout’chu? 'Cuz it looks ta me like we ain't goin' anyplace for a while...” He trailed off, catching the cardshark's green eyes suggestively and hoping it wasn't too obvious that his heart was in his throat.

The kid's rough flirting completely ruined any chance Nick had of being sensible. He recalled very clearly their plans for the night, and since they weren't currently running for their lives he was powerless to resist that mischievous sapphire look.

“Guess not,” he purred, setting aside his gun and arranging himself in such a way as to invite the young mechanic to join him on the mattress. “You know, I've still got something to tell you.”

“Oh yeah?” Ellis prompted, excitedly moving to the conman's side. “An' what's that?”

Nick's body pulsed as the Georgian sidled up to him, wet shirt clinging to every muscle. He turned a bit to run a finger across the logo, ever so softly, and felt a thrill as the young man shivered in response. The conman gently put the trucker hat aside, and leaned in to murmur roughly by the kid's ear.

“I've got to tell you...” he began, punctuating his words with little kisses along the southerner's neck. “How very... _very_... hot you were... back there with the tank... Like some sexy little... god of war...”

Ellis shuddered with delight, loving the sandpapery scratch of fresh stubble and swelling at the compliments. He tentatively touched Nick's side, where the blue dress shirt was plastered against his skin, and hummed happily when one of the northerner's hands began to assist him in untucking the garment from the belted slacks.

“Well hell, man, I couldn't let anythin' happen to ya...” he rumbled, an excited fluttering fear of the unknown gathering in his stomach. He struggled to keep it out of his voice, not totally sure of what he was about to do but determined not to back out. “We got a date t'night, remember?”

“How could I forget?” Nick breathed, already feeling a little overheated. He swiftly caught Ellis' lips and leaned in hungrily, closing his eyes to focus completely on the plush skin and warm tongue that melted so deliciously under his own.

The mechanic submitted for a moment, enjoying the taste of him and the low vibrations of his happy moan; but soon he wanted to take charge, and go with the urges his testosterone-fueled body demanded. He shifted a bit to sit up straighter and pushed, forcing his tongue into every bit of Nick's mouth, relishing the wet warmth and the shocked stiffness of his partner's body. Without thinking he let one hand fall to the conman's belt, smiling into the kiss at the amount of tension released along with the buckle.

Nick kept a very tight rein on his panic, forcing himself to relax when Ellis suddenly became dominant. He knew the kid wouldn't push it, so he handled the unease until it vanished, replaced by all-consuming lust. The mechanic systematically undid every fastener of his clothing one-handed while they made out, forcing their faces together with harsh need and using his tongue to thoroughly pleasure every surface of his mouth. The gambler moaned, unexpectedly turned on by the kid's assertive display, and shivered when he felt a strong hand begin to stroke at his chest. He nipped at the southerner's swollen lips and tried to run his fingers through his hair, but with a surprisingly tender finish to the kiss Ellis captured his wrist and forced him down to the floor.

“Holy crap, El,” Nick gasped, pinned by the young man's strength. “What-”

“Shut up or I'm gonna lose my nerve,” his captor said sharply, then worked his way down the conman's bare chest with licks and teasing bites. He ran his tongue over and around the sensitive scars that laced the skin, hesitantly rubbed his cheek in the short dark hair, and kept getting lower and lower and lower...

Nick bit his lip to keep from groaning, feeling far too aroused to mind his compromised position. Ellis' tongue was hot against his rain-cool torso, and rather disconcertingly he felt a stab of disappointment when the mechanic let go of his wrists. It was extremely short-lived, though, because those warm hands immediately went to work exposing his lower body.

Ellis tugged at his pants and he obligingly raised his hips a bit to let the clothing slide down. He heard a sharp intake of breath, and watched the kid's face as his raging erection was exposed. There it was again, that expression of terrified, eager uncertainty – but determination quickly wiped it away. Nick felt a massively delicious shock as the younger man bowed his head, and with the smallest of hesitations, opened his mouth.

“Oohhhhhh, _shit_...!”

The gambler couldn't keep his initial ecstasy silent. Through sheer force of will he kept himself from thrusting, determined not to gag Ellis like Ellis had gagged him the night before. Instead he clenched his hands into fists, and let the kid get comfortable at his own speed.

It was torture. Absolute, incredible, mind-blowing torture. Those plush lips circled his cock in silky torment, moving only centimeters at a time, gradually allowing just a little bit more access to the hot, wet heaven inside. Ellis clearly had no idea what he was doing, but it didn't matter at all, because the sensation surging through Nick's brain made his skin burn with sensitivity. He seized a handful of damp, sandy curls and found his voice, hoarse and tight with desire.

“Jesus... Oh, god, kid, you can do it... Breathe...”

He coaxed Ellis through, desperately clinging to restraint, shuddering as he was consumed inch by inch. The mechanic made little noises of effort that only served to drive his partner wild, and when at last he began to move in earnest Nick could only throw back his head and try not to moan too loudly. It was by no means the best he'd ever had, but not even the occasional scrape of teeth or suppressed half-retch could detract from the violent bliss of wet friction up and down his length. Heat gathered under his skin as the young southerner experimented with his tongue, swirling flat around the head and flicking against the ultra-sensitive nerve underneath.

“ _Yeah_ , El... Fuck, just like that...!”

Nick couldn't help it; Ellis hit just the right spot and made his muscles spasm, reflexively jutting his hips up and plunging himself deep into the mechanic's throat. Panic momentarily set in as the young man emitted a garbled sound of shock, but hardly a second later he resumed his bobbing motion with renewed enthusiasm. The gambler bit his tongue to keep quiet as his dick throbbed in and out of the tight, hot space; but he failed utterly when a firm hand began to move on the base of it, instantly escalating every tingling spark in his body to the level of blaze.

“Ahh! _God_ , that's so good... yeah, mmm, _yeah_...”

His voice cracked and the movement got faster and harder in response, sending pulses of pure pleasure through every inch of him, setting a fire under his hips that made his whole body seize up; and with a merciless buck he thrust himself completely into Ellis' mouth, finding release down the back of his throat in long, satisfying bursts.

Ellis squeezed his eyes shut and tried very hard to think of something, _any_ thing other than his current situation, because if he let his gag reflex take over there'd be a very nasty mess to clean up soon. He swallowed frantically, repeatedly, cringing at the hot taste but unable to close his jaw because there was still what felt like nine inches of Nick in the way. Only when the gambler's death-grip on his hair let up could he raise his head, mouth dripping, and reach for a bottle of water. He downed half of it in two huge gulps, narrowly managing not to choke.

“Holy _shit_ , Ellis,” the northerner gasped, utterly spent. “What the hell brought that on?”

“Had ta try it some time,” his partner muttered, taking another swig of water. “An' we had a deal, remember?”

Nick looked the mechanic over, and noted through his dizzying high that the kid still had all his clothes on.

“What about you? D'you want-”

“Nah,” Ellis interrupted with a grimace. “Maybe it’s just ‘cuz it’s the first time, but it didn't do much fer me. Sorry.”

“Pff, don't apologize,” Nick scoffed, pulling his trousers back up. “If you didn't like it we don't have to do that again, it's that simple. Though believe me – I'm damn happy you gave it a shot.”

The southerner's mouth twitched in a smile as he finished off the water. He glanced at his partner's face and saw the calm ease there, the happy flush in his cheeks and absence of the usual worried pinch about his eyes.

“I can see that,” he quipped, and crawled onto the mattress. He collapsed face-down for a moment, then rolled over to cuddle against the conman's side.

“I owe you one, then,” Nick yawned, slinging an arm around Ellis' shoulders. “Depending on how long we're stuck here...”

“Don't go countin' yer chickens yet,” the mechanic chided. “Let's see where we're at in the mornin'.”

“Whatever you say, killer,” the gambler sighed contentedly. “I really did mean it, though... You were awesome today.”

Ellis' face went warm with pleasure at the compliment and he closed his eyes, snuggling close against Nick's soft, strong chest.


	14. Chapter 14

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A wonderful amazing person named theladynina made some wonderful amazing fanart for this chapter! Be sure to check her out at theladynina.tumblr.com because she's an incredible artist and does a lot of Nellis/L4D2 stuff. I'm forever grateful and I hope you enjoy the illustrations!

Rain was still hammering at the corrugated steel roof when Ellis woke up, and since the clouds were still heavy and dark, there was no way to tell what time it was. He squeezed his eyes tightly shut in tired aggravation, but a nagging feeling kept him from falling back asleep. It was a hot, itchy sort of tickle that refused to be ignored, especially when he turned his head slightly and felt the solid warmth of Nick's chest against his face. The mechanic rolled away to get his feet under him, biting back an annoyed groan. There was no doubt that he was horny – the tight feeling in his pants confirmed this – but he sort of wanted to be alone.

 _Givin' head is weird as hell,_ he considered, quietly tiptoeing across the dim garage to the basement door. _I think I like the kissin' an' stuff better, but... there's gotta be somethin' else..._

As he picked his way between discarded wrenches and oil cans Ellis pondered the other possibilities his involvement with Nick might have to offer. A shudder racked his spine when his thoughts lit on what “all the way” might mean, making him kick a wayward screwdriver that clanged gently across the floor. He cursed under his breath and paused, listening for any sign that the noise had disturbed his teammates, but the only sounds came from the weather. Thunder still rolled and the rain seemed to be falling as hard as ever, if not worse.

The young Georgian sighed in frustration, but made his way across the rest of the room with no further incident. He opened the door cautiously, lightly descended the stairs, and collapsed on a landing near the bottom to lean back against the wall. He rested his head against the dank concrete and closed his eyes, vaguely flipping through dirty mental images until a few stirred his fancy. Memories of that night at the lodge, the caress of Nick's hot mouth and rough hands, spurred Ellis to untie his coveralls and let his hormones take control. He couldn't quite imagine what actual sex might be like, and still wasn't really sure how he felt about it anyway, but that didn't matter – so long as the conman kept doing that thing with his tongue. The mechanic sighed longingly at the thought, letting his left hand drop idly as he reached into his pants with his right; and suddenly his eyes flew open, sexy mood destroyed.

Cold water lapped at the step just below his resting place, and it was rising. He hurriedly fixed his pants and shook out his wet fingers, sending muddy droplets flying. Ellis cocked his head to the side, listening hard, and now that his mind was out of the gutter he could hear the sound of a swelling flood. Though the basement was black as pitch he could easily visualize the mess: tires everywhere; dirty water pouring from the walls; little bits of garbage pushed along by every ripple. He frowned worriedly and squatted to see how fast the level was gaining, but stood right back up as the dragging hem of his coveralls began to soak through at a frightening rate.

“ _Christ_ in a...”

The mechanic's eyes went wide and he vaulted up the steps three at a time, now making as much noise as possible.

“Gitchore asses _up_ , y'all! We gotta get outta here!”

Nick shot bolt upright at the sound of his teammate's yells, instinctively grabbing for a gun before the younger man yanked him roughly to his feet.

“Ellis, what the-”

“The buildin's floodin', grab yer shit an' let's _go!_ ”

The mechanic took his own advice, violently swinging his backpack on and snatching up his weapons before nearly sprinting across the divider to rouse Coach and Rochelle. The conman blinked sleep from his eyes for a moment, a bit disoriented; but he caught the edge on the mechanic's voice, and began to mobilize with alacrity.

Coach scrambled for his gun as Ellis' warning shouts broke into his light slumber. The words were indistinct so he braced himself for anything, awkwardly springing straight from his prone position into a battle crouch. Beside him Rochelle did the same, frantically adjusting her hasty grip on her M16 so the recoil wouldn't break her wrist. They stood poised to fight as the noises from beyond the partition continued, only vaguely noting that the commotion didn't sound like it came from infected.

_I swear t'God, if that boy's cryin' wolf..._

“We gotta move!” ordered the mechanic as he burst through the door. The startled older man only barely kept his finger off the trigger. “This place is floodin' fast, grab yer shit an' let's git ta higher ground!”

Behind him Coach felt Rochelle lower her gun. He did the same, and with still-sleepy eyes watched his countryman speedily empty a few shelves of their medicinal offerings.

“You f'real, son?” he asked incredulously, but still started packing his things. Ellis didn't look back at him, merely shoved some adrenaline in his pocket and picked up a box of ammo.

“Sure as shootin', Coach. If we ain't outta here right quick we're prolly gonna be swimmin' the rest a' the way.”

“Well, that sure puts a damper on things,” Rochelle quipped with a wry smile. Coach groaned and elbowed her in the ribs.

“Girl, that's awful. You oughta be ashamed of yo'self.”

“Shame later, running now,” Nick announced as he joined them. He had his bag and rifle slung over one shoulder but was in the middle of buttoning up his shirt, a fact that made Rochelle giggle a bit. “Junior's right, the basement's inundated. We have to find someplace above sea level.”

Coach finished shoving things into his bag and started to stash painkillers and batteries in his vest. When the bright orange garment was full he slung a defibrillator over his shoulder and distributed a few pre-made first-aid kits into the pockets of his cargo pants. Between the two of them, he and Ellis carried a whole trauma ward by the time the others were ready to go.

“C'mon, c'mon...” the mechanic chanted impatiently as he waited by the door. Rain blew in through the bars, a grim sign that their escape would not be pleasant.

“We're coming, sweetie, just hold on...” Rochelle told him as she zipped her backpack shut. Nick pulled on his jacket with a grimace and adjusted his own burdens, then drew his double Eagles and stepped up next to Ellis. Coach caught the nod they exchanged but made a point of ignoring it – there were more important things to focus on right now.

“Ready, baby girl?” he asked, hefting his rifle. Rochelle joined them with a tight smile, and with a last quick glance around the room she lifted the bar from the door.

It took precisely three seconds for all of them to get soaked to the skin. They formed up tight and moved onto the sidewalk, keeping close to the buildings to avoid some of the wind. The street ran like a river, water sluicing through the gutters and backing up out of storm sewers with nasty gurgling noises. Coach took point and glared through the dark curtain of rain, hard brown eyes searching for a hill to climb.

“Stick t'gether, people!”

Thunder rolled above them, and once more he regretted his decision to leave the lodge. He'd never admit it to Nick, but as heavy raindrops drummed a tattoo on his head the older man wished he hadn't been so stubborn. The more he thought about it, the less likely rescue seemed, and the heavier his heart felt. But shit, he couldn't just give up and dawdle around every safe house like a goddamn princess! He had places to go, people to find on the other side...

 _That's assumin' he's alive, an' **wants** t'get found_ , he reminded himself coldly. _He's got every right t'never wanna see yo' ass again._

“...reminds me 'bout this one time...” Through his thoughts he caught isolated snippets of Ellis' voice, ringing out under the noise of the storm. “Dave bet us... ain't never been so drunk in my _life_ , man... jus' like this, the lightnin an' shit...”

“Save it, young’un,” Coach admonished both the boy and himself for being distracted. He squinted ahead – he couldn't see anything through this crap. “Y'all keep yo' eyes sharp, now!”

“Okay,” the mechanic said reluctantly, then jogged abreast of their leader to ask a worried question. “Hey, d'ya think zombies're smart enough ta run for high ground, too?”

“Dunno, but we can't let our guard down,” Coach answered sternly, and winced at a fresh lightning strike. “Just cover yo' ass, boy!” He took his own advice as Ellis fell back again, and strained to see a path through the sodden night.

Curtains of driving rain obscured the storm-maddened infected that still lingered around every corner. Weighed down by the water that had risen past their ankles, the survivors couldn't move fast or quiet enough to avoid them. Before long every step was a fight, a wet and miserable battle punctuated by angry growls from the sky. It seemed as though this whole town was flat, with no hills or sturdy multistory buildings to run to, and they slogged on until the flood was up to their knees and the clouds became grey with sunrise.

“Fuck... this... shit...” panted Nick, stumbling on something hidden underwater. Rochelle caught his arm before he could fall. “Isn't it kinda late in the season for a goddamn hurricane?”

“This year ain't been normal any other way,” Ellis grumbled as he aimed off to their right. “Who says a cyclone can't come in November?”

“It's seriously November?” Rochelle asked incredulously when the mechanic was done gunning down a few zombies.

“Yeah,” the young man said flatly, reloading. “We've been runnin' for over a month.”

Nobody was quite sure how to respond to that. Coach's brow furrowed in sadness; Nick grit his teeth into the wind and tried not to think about it; Rochelle felt a sick weight settle into the back of her throat. She wasn't sure whether the elapsed time seemed too short or too long, but either way it didn't feel right. Especially when she realized that if it was November, it must be close to Thanksgiving.

The journalist pumped lead into a few nearby zombies without really thinking about it, preoccupied with a sudden depression. _I should be home, with Jake and Dad and Janet and the kids and sweet potatoes on the table... Sweet Jesus, there isn't much to be thankful for this year._

She blinked against the tears that formed at the thought of her family, though her vision was no clearer for the effort. The sun was still smothered by heavy clouds and lightning, and everything more than a few feet away was obscured by rain, and the new magazine for her M16 was slick with water that made it hard to manipulate...

“Fire spit coming!”

Nick's warning cry preceded the arrival of a caustic green projectile that came whizzing out of the fog. While the others scattered he swiftly took aim, and emptied both of his pistols into the murky place he figured the spitter had to be before making a desperate dive out of the way.

Rochelle heard him scream. She splashed violently as she changed direction and ran to his aid, but before she'd gone more than a few steps she felt the burn of acid claw at her legs. She recoiled with a yelp; the goo was spreading in the water!

“Nick!” she called, dancing backwards again. “Nick, are you okay?”

“God _dammit_ this hurts!” he yelled, stumbling as he tried to escape. “Shit!”

The pale blur of the gambler's suit suddenly disappeared from Rochelle's sight. She could hear Ellis and Coach trying to get to him, too, but stinging vitriol had turned the turgid flood into a death trap. Not that it stopped the mechanic; with an agonized cry he threw himself into the muck, fighting the pain in a tenacious attempt to save his lover.

“Boy, get yo' ass _up_!” hollered Coach; but more infected were emerging from the gloom, and he had to give the younger men cover instead of a hand out of the muck.

“Ro, help me!” Ellis screamed, bent double with Nick's limp form cradled in his arms. He struggled to drop the hitman's backpack, but the straps were pulled tight and would not come free.

“Oh, son of a...!” she moaned desperately, and against all her better judgment plunged to their rescue.

It hurt just as bad as it always did. Worse, even, now that the acid was halfway up her legs instead of merely splashing at her feet – but she steeled herself against the burn and ran in anyway. The need to protect her teammates temporarily suppressed the pain; and like a mother saving her child from under a burning car, she ignored the danger to herself for the sake of the others. With strength beyond her normal capabilities the journalist grabbed Ellis' arm in one hand and Nick's collar in the other, and hauled the both of them out of the sizzling green swamp.

“Hell if I'm carrying you, get up!” she cried, yanking the mechanic to his feet. He dragged his burden along with him, and seemingly in a daze hefted the conman over his shoulder into a fireman's carry – guns, backpack, and all.

“We gotta keep movin'!” roared Coach, still backing away. “He shot that bitch but we got more comin'!”

“Where are we going?” Rochelle asked anxiously, fighting the burn that was now making itself known.

“Don't know, don't care! Next place I see with a second story, we're takin' it over!”

The two of them defended Ellis and his cargo as they slogged their way through town. The young southerner was obviously hurting but kept his mouth shut, eyes pinched with both physical discomfort and near-panicked worry. Rochelle hissed under her breath in frustration every time she looked at him, cursing the weather and the zombies and the town that seemed to be built entirely below sea level. She worked her rifle with a vengeance, and tried not to think too much; they couldn't tend to Nick's wounds in the street, and fretting about them now would only hurt their chances of getting somewhere safe.

Coach cast his gaze about frantically, torn between the immediate need for _dry_ and the perpetual need for _defensible_. As they progressed through the city he could see a couple of two-story buildings that might do for a real camp under normal circumstances, but their roofs were in awful shape and likely to be just as wet upstairs as down.  Another edifice near the outskirts of town had a proper roof, but lots of big windows that a smoker could take advantage of. He was about to pass it by when another lightning strike, accompanied by a harsh blast of wind, drew a distressed grunt from the mechanic close behind him. Ellis was definitely suffering.

“This way, y'all! Not far now!” He changed course with a reassuring shout, determined to get them all under cover.

Rochelle glanced ahead, but couldn't see where Coach was taking them. Instead of trying to peer through the rain she returned her attention to their rear flank, smashing the butt of her rifle into the face of a zombie who'd gotten too close while she was distracted.

Crossing the last few blocks to the house was misery. Coach had to bust the locked door open while Rochelle covered them, and at long last the bedraggled group limped inside. Ellis made straight for the staircase while their leader blocked the entrance again, dragging heavy furniture through two feet of water to create a barricade. Rochelle quickly poked her gun into every room on the first floor, then dashed ahead of the younger men to check the upstairs before they got there.

_Empty. I guess that's one thing to be thankful for._

While the journalist began a thorough search of the place, Ellis found the bathroom. He laid Nick down on the tile as gently as he could, finally wrestling his backpack off and discarding it by the sink. Trembling with fear and pain, biting his lip with worry, he leaned down to listen for the conman's breath. All he heard was a faint gurgle, and terrifyingly weak heartbeat.

“No, no, nononono....” He began a frantic chant, in time with the rise and fall of his hands on his comrade's sternum. Keith had nearly drowned often enough that Ellis could do CPR in his sleep; it was good that the movements were pure muscle memory by now, because he couldn't think straight. The entirety of his mental state was occupied by wordless desperation. How long had it taken to find this place? Were they too late?

He bent again after thirty compressions, noting with panic that Nick's thin lips were tinted blue. No warm air ghosted from between them.

“ _Shit_... don't do this, ya can't...” sobbed the young medic, continuing his ministrations. After thirty more firm shoves he still had no response, so automatically he moved on to the next step. Hands shaking, he tipped Nick's head back and pinched his nose shut. Forcing himself to breathe normally was nigh-impossible, especially when he sealed their mouths together and thought of how much he'd rather do that without death stealing all their warmth away.

Two long, slow breaths. Thirty firm pushes.

Two more breaths. Thirty more pushes.

Ellis kept at it doggedly, eyes streaming with unnoticed tears as he labored to bring Nick back to life. There was no _way_ he was giving up. Just one more breath, one more hard shove of that perfectly muscled chest and he'd be up, royally pissed but perfectly fine... Just one more, _please_...

“It ain't workin', boy,” came Coach's deep, strained voice at his shoulder. Ellis didn't stop, but that wasn't what the older man was there for. He yanked off the defibrillator he'd grabbed earlier, knelt by his teammate's side and offered it up like the precious thing it was. “This's good for three. Pray t'God he don't need any more.”

Ellis grabbed and prepared it without a word, not taking his eyes from Nick's unnaturally pale face. His dark hair stood out even more than usual against the waxy, blistered skin of his motionless chest, exposed as his soaked blue shirt tore away. Hot, sick claws closed around the mechanic's throat, making him choke on the word of last resort.

"C... clear!"

A sharp _zat_ made Nick's body arc up off the floor and fall back with an uncomfortable noise. He didn't move of his own accord, and his pulse was silent.

“F-fuckin' _CLEAR_!” Ellis cried, and nearly bit through his tongue when the second shock had no more effect than the first. Coach and Rochelle were both praying aloud, voices merging in a tense and tinny buzz. Ellis couldn't speak as he loosed the third and final charge. Frantically he threw the spent device aside and searched once more for a pulse, wiry hair tickling his ear as he pressed it to the conman's chest.

“...please Lord, don’t take him yet...” came his teammate's muttered prayers, drowning out any faint sounds of life.

“Shut up!”

They fell silent and Ellis closed his eyes tight, heart whispering prayers of its own as he strained to hear something, anything...

…

 _Thub-dub. Thub-dub. Thub-dub_.

With a strangled cry of hope Ellis resumed CPR, and after only six compressions Nick convulsed all by himself. He made a noise like a cross between a spitter and a boomer, and started to cough up lungfuls of filthy water all over the place. Coach whooped and redoubled his prayers, this time in thanks, while Rochelle collapsed against him and started to cry with relief.

Ellis knelt immobile on the cold tiles, ready to pass out. Nick's vile expectoration pooled around him and he didn't give a single flying fuck, because the man himself was sitting up and clinging to the edge of the bathtub and _breathing –_ hacking violently, sure, but he was _alive_. A huge, watery grin grew on the mechanic's face, one that didn't go away as he gently helped his patient lie back down and reached for a first-aid kit.

“Haahhh, _shit_ ,” the conman rasped, voice gravelly and ragged. Ellis hushed him as he tried to talk.

“Shh, just relax,” he said as soothingly as he could through a throat full of tears. “I dunno how long ya went with no air, so just... I gotta check yer... an’ the burns, I mean...”

Nick swallowed, coughed some more, and nodded with a wince. Ellis cast a pleading glance behind him, begging with his eyes, and like always the others couldn't deny his face. They retreated, fears assuaged, to find somewhere else to dry off and bless the Lord for His mercy.

When they were gone the young man shut the door, collected the towels hanging off the back of it, and knelt back down to wrap them around his shivering companion. Instead of squeezing tight he just held Nick's _living_ body in a warm, gentle embrace, and buried his face in his dripping black hair.

The affectionate gesture drew a weak chuckle from his resurrected lover. Ellis cherished it for a moment, feeling like he'd been channeling holy magic. It suffused him with exquisite relief; but he was also incredibly drained, and remembered the rest of his task with a tired sigh.

“Lissen, I gotta... I'm just gonna...”

“I know,” Nick whispered roughly, and sat up despite his medic's protestations. With a tiny, bittersweet smile he reached out, shaky fingers twining into the mechanic's sopping wet curls. There wasn't anything to say, nothing that _could_ be said. They just looked at each other, stark intensity heating the air around them, until Ellis couldn't take it anymore and ducked away to grab some antibiotic.

Nick helped remove his clothes to expose the nasty burns marring his skin. They could have been a lot worse – the acid had been diluted by all the water – but they were _everywhere_.

“If yer lucky, these ain't gonna scar,” Ellis said quietly, just to break the still-emotional silence. He delicately cleaned out the worst of the lesions, and spread ointment over them as gently as he could.

“What I wanna know...” Nick rasped, wincing at the contact on his tender skin. “Is how the hell... that shit hurts so bad... without frying our clothes to a crisp.” He'd expected Ellis to laugh; but the southerner actually paused his ministrations, looking thoughtful.

“It's gotta be some sorta enzyme,” he pondered aloud. Nick did an audial double-take.

“Wait, what?”

“An enzyme,” the young man repeated a bit sheepishly, resuming his work. “One that'll screw up muscle proteins or some shit, but can't do anythin' ta simple stuff like cotton an' polyester.”

Nick stared at him.

“And how the hell do you know that? I thought you were shit at chemistry,” he pointed out, and coughed loudly.

“I said _Keith_ was shit at it,” Ellis corrected with a proud smirk, and finished applying bandages. “After the gasoline fireworks, I figured _one_ of us oughta know what blows up an' what doesn't. Can ya roll over?”

The conman did so, allowing his doctor access to the burns on his back. He closed his eyes, exhausted, and tried to enjoy the feeling of Ellis' caring hands soothing his wounds. The periodic sting of antibiotic made it difficult.

“You- _ow_. ...You never cease to amaze me, kid.”

Nick fell silent, focusing on his lungs and the odd, tingly headache that made it quite hard to concentrate. He felt like his guts had been scoured out with steel wool and then filled with lead. He was freezing and sweating at the same time, too, and lying naked on the cold tile floor wasn't helping.

“Awright now, let’s get’cha inta bed,” Ellis said firmly when he was done playing doctor. Nick tried to protest as the southerner hung his clothes out over the bathtub, but to his annoyance he couldn't quite stand up.

“Hey, El...”

“Yeah, yeah, holdjer horses,” his teammate scolded gently, and stooped to help the gambler to his feet. “Ya know I ain't gonna leave ya down there. C'mon, there's gotta be someplace warm around here.”

“I was gonna ask if you were okay,” Nick said wryly, leaning on the younger man for support while he wrapped a towel around his waist. “You must've got hit by the goo..?”

“Yer the one who _died_ , dammit, lemme take care a' you,” Ellis growled back. Nick failed to suppress a shudder at the flat truth in his voice.

“That's all you've done since this goddamn mess started,” he muttered, realizing with shocked amazement just how much he owed the kid.

Coach and Rochelle had established camp in what passed for the master bedroom, but there was another room down the hall that had apparently once been home to a pair of teenage siblings. Ellis helped his charge into the bottom level of the sturdy bunk bed, then went to fetch their bags from the bathroom. Nick had just gotten the covers nicely arranged when the others tentatively came to check on him. They approached the way visitors would approach a hospital bed, which only pissed the gambler off even more than he was already.

“What?” he asked grumpily, not really in the mood for a heart-to-heart.

“We just wanted to make sure you're okay,” Rochelle said gently, sharp brown eyes making note of the fresh bandages on his bare arms. Coach stood beside her, looking subdued.

“Cut the crap,” Nick grouched. “I know you only want to make sure _he's_ okay. He's fine.”

“That's not-” the journalist began, taken aback.

“Yes it is,” the northerner interrupted, straining to keep things straight in his head. “He's not gonna break down because I got my stupid ass kicked by a long-necked bitch with heartburn. Ellis is tougher than you give him credit for.”

His teammates looked at each other with tired expressions.

“Well, his temper's intact,” Rochelle sighed with a wry half-smile. Coach snorted.

“Whatever kinda arguments we been havin', son, I'd hate t'lose you,” he said somewhat defensively. “Focus on gettin' back on yo' feet, then we'll clear the air. Awright?”

Nick took a moment to process this, and decided that he didn't have the energy for further antagonism at the moment. Instead of cooking up a scathing comeback, he merely grunted in agreement and closed his eyes. From behind the soothing darkness he heard the two of them retreat; and a few minutes of thoughtless drifting later, his savior returned, dragging a heavy load. The backpacks made irregular _thunk_ s on the cheap carpet, as did the rifles and Ellis himself as he sat down with a harsh exhale.

Nick listened, halfway between sleep and wakefulness, as the mechanic cleaned all their guns and had something to eat. He wasn't particularly hungry, himself; the toxic water had left his whole system screwed up. And despite the blankets swathing his curled-up body, he was still cold – southerners wouldn't know a good quilt from tissue paper.

“How're ya doin'?” Ellis asked gently when he was done eating. “I talked ta Ro an' Coach, an' we ain't goin' noplace 'til the storm's good an' over, so g'wan an' git some sleep, okay?”

“Nnh,” mumbled Nick, opening his eyes a crack. They went much wider when he realized that the young mechanic was wearing nothing but a towel. “Jesus, kid... Next time you need to restart my heart, just take your shirt off.”

That got a laugh out of him. Ellis sheepishly adjusted his makeshift kilt and rubbed at the back of his neck, glancing awkwardly around the room but smiling nonetheless.

“Heh. Let's go with _not_ needin' ta do that again.”

“I can live with that,” Nick replied sardonically, and pulled the covers tighter around himself to stave off a sudden wave of chills. Ellis noticed.

“Aw, damn. Hang on, I'll git’cha the blankets from the top bunk...”

“El,” the gambler stopped him with a word, and caught his concerned blue eyes as they turned back to look.

“Yeah?”

“More crappy sheets aren't gonna help if I've got no body heat,” he said, quite truthfully. “And you must be tired...”

Ellis stood stock-still until the older man's meaning became apparent. When it hit he blushed, cleared his throat, and wrenched his gaze away.

“Yer in no shape for... stuff... Ya gotta stay still...”

“Not like that,” Nick sighed, a bit amused but mostly just cold and exhausted. He shifted over a bit and pulled back the covers invitingly. “Just get in, wouldja?”

The mechanic hesitated for a moment – but only a moment. He closed the door with a tired smile, then dropped his towel and slid into bed. Immediately Nick snuggled close with a delicious sigh, shamelessly leaching as much heat as he could from the younger man. Ellis, made of solid muscle, had plenty to spare.

“Christ in a handbasket, Nick! You really are freezin'!”

“Mm-hmm,” the conman hummed, already beginning to lose consciousness. He tightened his grip on his partner, their naked bodies gradually equalizing in temperature under the light blankets. His mind was fast going blank, but there was one more thing to do...

“Hey, El?”

“Yeah?”

“Thanks.”

Ellis did not reply in words. Instead he turned over, pulled Nick close, and gave him a heated good-night kiss.


	15. Chapter 15

Weak sunlight strained from behind the clouds but could not break through. Trees tossed fitfully outside, leaves exposing their silver bellies to the gale before being torn off their branches and whisked away. Rochelle sat cross-legged on the floor, watching the tempest through the window and robotically dismantling her M16. She was so drenched that her skin was heavy with wrinkles and the carpet underneath her was soaked, releasing a wet-dog smell that was downright pleasant compared to the usual reek of decay. Any sane person would curl up with hot tea and a whodunnit in this weather; Rochelle drank stale-tasting bottled water, and whispered her way through every line she could remember from the Book of Psalms.

When she really thought about it, it was a miracle they hadn't had more close calls like that. Before today, the worst injury they'd faced was her own near-death experience back in Savannah. Unused to running and fighting and killing things yet, she'd been pounced on by a jockey as they made their way out of an abandoned bus station. It had steered her straight into a downed transformer, and she was damn lucky that there had been chest paddles in the security office. But the four of them had just met at that point, and Rochelle had no doubts that if she hadn't made it, the guys wouldn't have been too upset. Now, though, after everything they'd been through... Cantankerous ex-con or not, Nick was one of them. And if he died, she'd miss him.

“Here," Coach said quietly, sitting down to offer her a can of ravioli. "Eat somethin'. You'll feel better."

"Thanks," she said weakly.

They ate in somber silence, relief slowly giving way to the jarring reality of their situation –  they should have been dead weeks ago. Maybe Nick was right, and there was no rescue waiting in New Orleans. Hell, was there _anywhere_ left to run to by now? Had the plague consumed the entire country, left it broken and desolate and lifeless like the war-torn city around them? What if the Flu had ravaged the entire world?

“Where are we going, Coach? Really?” Rochelle asked, despairing eyes fixed on the grainy orange grease coating the inside of the can. Her companion stared out the window.

“Home,” he answered with forced hope. “We're gonna get home, girl. You gotta believe it.”

“How can you say that?” she whispered, curling up to rest her chin on her knees. “Savannah's overrun. You can't go back.”

Coach didn't speak for a moment. His big hands clenched around his lunch hard enough to dent the can a little.

“Don't'chu got a family, Ro? Don't'chu figure that wherever you're at don't matter, if y'all can be t'gether again?”

The journalist turned her head slowly. Her older comrade wore a heartbroken expression, and his stern brown eyes were pinched like he was trying not to cry. She scooched a little closer to wrap an arm around him – comfort was one of the last things she had in her power to give.

“You never mentioned you had a family,” she said softly. Coach shook his head in tight jerks.

“I don't wanna go through this twice,” he replied hoarsely. “I'll tell y'all later, awright?”

“Okay,” she answered with a supportive squeeze of his shoulders. They were a lot less broad than they had been a month ago, burned down by their escape to expose muscles that knotted with care. Looking at him now, not as a steadfast leader but as a human being, Rochelle could see the toll the apocalypse had taken on the man. Previously overweight by anyone's measure, Coach was starting to look a bit like an athlete again; while he was still far from NFL material, his figure was changing as their flight burned the pounds away. The disturbing part was that his face had become thinner, just enough to appear hollow and desperate around dark eyes filled with mourning.

She swallowed the lump that had risen in her throat.

“We should dry off,” she said firmly, maternal instincts kicking in once again. Taking care of other people always made her feel better, too, like she was actually doing something to help instead of standing around uselessly while the world went to hell.

“Yeah,” Coach sighed after a moment, and levered himself off the ground. “Fresh clothes an' towels, that's where it's at.”

“Maybe I'll even find something that fits this time,” Rochelle half-joked as she stood up. She left her gun in pieces on the floor.

* * *

 

Ellis wasn't sleepy. Exhausted, for sure, but not sleepy. He lay awake, blinking at the slats of the bunk above him, with Nick out cold by his side. Every so often he'd reach out a hand, just to reassure himself that the man was still breathing. The soft rise and fall of his bandaged chest was calming, as were his periodic twitches and gentle snores. It took a while, but eventually the mechanic relaxed enough to let his mind wander.

Somehow, it was still daytime. Making it across town had felt like an eternity, but really only a few hours had passed, and by now Ellis figured it must be somewhere after noon. Not that it really mattered, of course. They were stuck on their own private island until the storm ended and the flood waters receded – which could take over a week, if more rain fell to the north and washed downstream. He grimaced.

 _We haven't got enough food ta last us that long,_ he thought uncomfortably. _An' I'll go nuts havin' ta stay in one place. This shit better clear up fast._

He tilted his head back to glance out the window and made a quiet noise of frustration, both at the persistently inclement weather and the sting in his muscles from the movement. He'd managed to drench himself with acid pulling Nick out of the water, and though his burns didn't quite qualify as serious, they still itched like fire under the poultices he'd made for himself.

In a strange way the pain was a good thing, just enough of a distraction to keep him from getting too lost in unpleasant thoughts. He'd always been the idealistic sort, but today's scare had made a serious dent in his armor of happy optimism. The last mental defense he had was to switch focus from how royally fucked they all were to an exhaustive analysis of how Nick's brush with death had affected him.

There was no doubt that something very important had changed, down on that cold bathroom floor when his partner's pulse went silent. It had felt sort of like the time he'd been kicked in the stomach by Mr. Samuel's bull, crossed with the despairing agony he'd seen in his mother when she'd miscarried all those years ago. But when he'd heard Nick's heart beat again, resuming that same soothing rhythm that had driven his nightmares away, Ellis could almost say that he'd come back to life, too. It was as if something of himself was bound to the gambler's fate.

He re-lived that moment over and over. Each time he tried to get a better handle on what had happened, but detail was elusive as CEDA evac. It wasn't clear whether he _couldn't_ put words to it or whether, subconsciously, he didn't _want_ to. Either way left a big, terrifying stretch of the unknown lurking deep in his mind, and he had the sinking feeling that it would come back to bite him in the ass at some extraordinarily inconvenient time.

Ellis looked down at the sleeping conman and sighed. The temperature under the blankets was plenty warm by now, and Nick's skin didn't feel clammy anymore, so very carefully he slipped back out of bed. Moving as quietly as he could, he climbed partway up the ladder to the top bunk and pulled off the sheets. Just as delicately he spread the second layer over his teammate, then started to search the room for something dry to wear.

Luck was on his side for once. One of the boys who'd lived here Before was either close to his size or had a penchant for baggy clothes, so he rapidly acquired a tidy pile of boxers, jeans, socks, and t-shirts. The clean cloth felt absolutely magical against his abused skin, and he hummed in appreciation as he pulled on a soft blue shirt with the Power Rangers logo on it. The faded reminder of his childhood was a little bittersweet, but also provided a bit of cheer in this otherwise dreary situation. At the moment, he'd take all the solace he could get.

As Ellis got dressed he was torn between the desire for company and the imperative to keep watch over the still-fragile northerner curled up on the bed. It was too damn quiet in here, but an irrational fear insisted that if he left, something terrible would happen. Conflicted, he paced back and forth a few times before finally spotting an interesting object on the bookshelf.

 _Well, goddamn,_ he thought in amazement, picking up a silver Walkman CD player. _I didn't know these still existed!_

The foam headphone covers were a bit stained, and the wires were tangled beyond hope, but to Ellis' astonishment the gadget's battery still had a charge. Inside was a plain disk, the kind they sell blank at the computer store, with an inscription scrawled across the label in smudgy red marker.

“Mix 4 Josh <3 Ashley”

Ellis suddenly felt like he was intruding – he knew firsthand how personal mix CDs could be – but curiosity and boredom overcame the twinge of guilt. He closed the lid, put on the cheap headphones, and hit play.

The device made a faintly chirping scratch as it spun up. He sat down against the wall facing the bed, and smiled as he recognized the first track – definitely a teenager's repertoire. It took some self-control to not start singing along.

_I'm so cool, too bad I'm a loser..._

The young mechanic was thrown back in time as Blink-182, Bon Jovi, and the Goo Goo Dolls sang in his head, each track a little more heartfelt than the last. He had to hand it to her; this Ashley person really knew how to put together a playlist. Even though his taste had changed over the years, and he wasn't familiar with a few of the more recent artists, there was still something pure and innocent about the old pop-rock music he'd listened to in junior high. It created a little bubble of sound around him, and inside it Ellis could close his eyes and pretend the world was all right again.

Something Corporate gently finished swearing to give their lives for him, and the Walkman whispered its way into the next song. When the first notes came they shattered his fragile nostalgia with a voice as familiar as his own, and made him sit bolt upright in the fast-darkening room with his heart pounding louder than the rain.

_It's not a game I take lightly, for nothing is gained..._

The words were raw, earnest, and pleading. They lodged in his heart and filled him with a thin pressure, as though he wanted to cry but couldn't. He blamed it on being emotionally drained to begin with, and resisted with everything he had; but Nick's voice seized him by the throat and made every inch of his body resonate with desperate and delighted terror, as if he were about to perform live onstage for the first time.

_You better make your move, or it's the same sad song for you..._

Ashley's meaning was clear: this was the musical equivalent of a “Do you like me? []yes []no” note, and Ellis felt it in the pit of his stomach. The problem was that he didn't know what move to make. It had only been a few days since that night in the woods, and despite the quiet warnings of his conscience, he'd been ignoring the deeper currents developing in his heart. They were simply too inconvenient. He could be killed any minute of any day, so it made no sense to waste time worrying about them. Things happened, for better or worse, and it was safer for his sanity to not question why.

Why he'd charged through gunfire to kill a tank single-handed.

Why he'd plunged headlong into spitter acid without a second thought.

Why there were helpless tears gathering in his eyes as the final echoes faded away.

He pressed the silver button marked “repeat.”

* * *

 

When Nick woke up he was alone. The room was full of what murky red light could make it through the clouds, faintly illuminating the pile of equipment on the carpet and the Midnight Riders poster on the wall. Gingerly he pushed back the double layer of blankets and sat at the edge of the bed, noting with vague satisfaction that the rain was easing up. He wasn't sure from the sky whether it was dawn or dusk, but that would reveal itself in due course. Wincing at the pain in his – well, everywhere – the conman protected his dignity with a towel and knelt to rummage through his bag for something to eat.

One suspicious can of chowder later the light hadn't faded; in fact, it was growing stronger. Outside the wind had died down, and though rain was still falling it qualified more as a light shower than a torrent. Unfortunately there was still a good four feet of water over everything, indicating that their little journey was still on pause for the moment. Nick couldn't bring himself to be upset about that.

When he turned to go hunting for toothpaste he caught sight of Ellis. The Georgian occupied the top bunk now, fully clothed with no sheets to cover him. Strangely, he seemed to be wearing a pair of old headphones, the sight of which made the northerner smile bitterly as he left the room. He couldn't count how many times his younger self had fallen asleep listening to his favorite tapes, preferring the synthesizers of Depeche Mode to the screams of his fighting parents.

Rochelle was pacing around the hall on watch, keeping an eye on the big windows that Coach had been worried about. She brightened up at the sight of Nick making his way to the bathroom, tired eyes smiling at him over slightly pale cheeks and an unfamiliar outfit. He blinked at her but said nothing, too preoccupied with feeling like shit to be sociable. It wasn't quite as bad as his hangover, but he still made sure to move slowly as he cleaned himself up.

Through some miracle, there was running water. Cold only, of course, and Nick didn't quite trust it for drinking, but he took full advantage of the facilities to wash what skin wasn't swathed in gauze and tape. Soap and shampoo worked wonders even without a good hot shower, and in short order the conman felt less like a walking corpse and more like he'd had a very long night at the bar. Standing before the mirror, he swiped a hand through his blessedly clean hair and thoughtfully regarded his battered countenance.

_Whatever the hell happened yesterday, Ellis saved my life. Again._

He glanced at the defibrillator still lying on the floor, and sighed.

_...I'm nowhere near good enough for him, am I?_

He frowned. Since when did he care whether or not he was “good enough” for anything or anyone? Was this another change the apocalypse had caused? Nicolas Fields never felt guilty for taking advantage of people. Nicolas Fields never gave anything back.

Staring down his reflection, Nick knew that Ellis deserved someone better.

But instead of despair, a fierce determination began to smolder in his chest. He glared into the emerald fire of his own eyes, and without reservation swore the most powerful oath he knew – words sacred to the Family, and binding to the grave.

“ _Sangue per sangue, sona tua per sempre._ ”

As the rusty Italian rolled off his tongue he discovered that the ritual was nothing more than a formality – at some point, he'd pledged his loyalty to Ellis without even realizing it. All he had to do now was live up to his own high standards, and shape himself into someone worthy of loyalty in return.

He nodded sharply to bind himself to the task, and finished washing his face.

* * *

 

Coach woke grudgingly, reluctantly. Thin golden lances of sun pierced the sky and glittered where they touched still-falling rain, but the brilliant display was lost on him. All he could see was an ocean of blood keeping them penned in, surface scummed with bile and debris. He almost preferred the violent darkness of his watch, awful reality invisible behind a stormy black shroud. There he could pretend he was standing guard over Kevin, five years old and afraid that the thunder monsters had come to steal his toes; but in the half-light of this sodden day there were no memories, only the bleak knowledge that he'd never see that little boy again.

He sighed in frustration and got up to prowl the house. His new clothes were a little tight, so he skipped climbing the attic ladder that he discovered tucked away in a closet by the bathroom. Instead he turned a corner and found the others, perched in a row on the wide staircase like birds on a power line. His footsteps drew their attention away from the filthy muck below.

“How you doin', son?” he asked Nick gruffly, to hide how worried he'd been. The conman sneered like he was about to talk back, but paused before speaking and let his face relax. When he finally replied his tone was civil.

“Better than I have any right to be. Not great, though.”

“I'm thinkin' that's pretty much true for all of us, hmm?” Coach said rhetorically with a sympathetic smile. Ellis looked suspiciously from him to Rochelle.

“Did you two cover all the watches again?” he demanded, though his voice lacked much power. “That ain't fair, I tolja last time ta wake me up!”

“I couldn't sleep anyway, young’un,” the older man grumbled. Rochelle squeezed the mechanic's shoulder.

“You had a rough day, and we didn't want to disturb you,” she said soothingly. “And we definitely didn't want to bother _him_.” She nodded significantly at the raven-haired gambler sitting on Ellis' other side. Nick started to make a sarcastic face, then controlled himself.

“I appreciate that.”

Coach raised an eyebrow, sharing a Look with Rochelle that once more took note of the northerner's strange behavior. Then he sighed heavily, and rubbed his face with his hands.

“Y'all come on with me. It's past time we get some shit straight.”

He turned around, missing the rapid exchange of eloquent glances between his three teammates. They followed him to the master bedroom, and at his bidding sat down in a circle. He shut the door for privacy, out of habit, and joined them on the floor. The short carpet was rough as he dragged his hand across it, its industrial greyish-red color reminiscent of office buildings and waiting rooms. Silence lay thick in the air, a defensive line waiting to be broken.

“Y'all can prob'ly guess what needs t'be said,” he began quietly. “Nick, Ellis? Ain't no point in bein' shy anymore. I promise I ain't gonna throw the Good Book at’cha.”

He looked at each of them in turn. Rochelle wore a sad, supportive little smile. Nick was stonefaced, as usual. Ellis played with a loose thread on his shirt, expression hidden.

“Take that cap off, son,” Coach ordered gently.

The mechanic slowly complied, and began to fidget with his hat. The older man recognized the distress in his uneasy blue eyes, and the slight tension in his broad shoulders.

“Right,” he said firmly, bracing himself. “Now I think we've all been talkin' t'each other one at a time, an' playin' telephone with the facts, an' that shit's gotta _stop_. Ro an' me, we care what happens t'both of you, an' not just 'cuz we gotta stick t'gether t'survive. So y'all gonna tell us where you two're at, an' I want’cha ta be totally open, awright? We're gonna quit whisperin' behind each other's backs, an' start this shit from scratch.”

Giving the speech stiffened his spine a bit. Feeling more secure in his own self-control, Coach looked sternly at the younger men and listened attentively when Nick began to speak.

“You know this isn't that simple,” the northerner began with effort. “First off... When we were on watch – that time in the woods, remember? I, uh... I said some things I shouldn't have, so... If we're wiping the slate, I want you to forget that.”

Ellis looked up curiously, clearly wondering what conversation the gambler was talking about. Coach just nodded.

“Great. So. _Now_?” Nick emphasized, and shook his head slightly. “Ellis saved my life, _twice_. Even if all I wanted before was sex-” Coach couldn't help wincing a little at his bluntness. “-which, for the record, _wasn't_ the case – do you really think I'd let anything happen to him now? I'm not some petty playboy looking for a quick fuck. Not anymore.”

At those last words he turned to meet his partner's eyes. Ellis blushed vibrantly and tried to duck under a hat that wasn't there. The reflex made Nick smile.

Coach watched with a lump in his throat. He was inclined to believe that Nick wouldn't hurt Ellis if he could help it – and it wasn't like he had a choice in the matter – but the protective part of him was still worried.

“An' you, boy?” Coach prompted. “Is this asshole treatin' you right?”

The mechanic seemed almost offended by the question, flush rapidly changing to a defensive heat. He looked up with a hard expression of disbelief, eyes flashing with azure fire.

“You even gotta _ask_?” he retorted indignantly. “I ain't some kinda shrinkin' violet, man, ya think I can't stand up for myself?”

“That's not what he meant, sweetie...” Rochelle interjected soothingly; but something had hit a nerve, and Ellis cut her off.

“It damn well better not be, 'cuz if _any_ body tries ta pull that kinda shit on me he's gettin' a faceful a' hot lead!” He fumed for a moment while the others stared, taken aback by his uncharacteristic outburst. “Maybe I dunno exactly what kinda relationship we got, but I'll thank ya ta quit implyin' I'm... I'm...” He floundered, fishing for a word.

“Abused,” Nick finished quietly.

“...Yeah,” Ellis trailed off, simmering down enough to stop crushing his hat between his hands. “Sorry. I... I know yer just lookin' out for me, but... don't.”

It got so quiet that for a moment they could hear the rush of water outside.

“Clear enough for you, old man?” asked Nick in a voice barely louder than a whisper.

Coach released a breath he didn't know he was holding. His shoulders slumped as a nameless tension slithered out of them, but he hadn't the faintest idea of what to say. He was very strongly reminded of their last group therapy session, and how surprised he'd been when the conman stood up for Ellis, but it didn't seem so strange anymore.

The sun was gradually winning its battle against the last sullen dregs of the hurricane, casting an inappropriately cheerful light over their circle. He felt it beating on his back, and saw it in the shine of Nick's clean black hair. It warmed the red dye in the carpet and glinted from Ellis' eyelashes as he inspected the hem of his jeans.

Coach cleared his throat, dreading what he had to do next.

“All right, Nick. Go on.”

“Quit dicking around, you know what I'm gonna ask.”

Ellis and Rochelle watched the exchange with confusion. The journalist had a vague sense of what was coming, but still felt an unpleasant rush of pity as Coach's stern face melted into a sorrowful mask. Even his voice got depressed.

“I have a son,” he began, and let that sink in for a moment. “Kevin. Before the apocalypse, we weren't exactly what’cha might call 'on the best of terms.' I wanna get outta here so I can find him, an' mend some fences we left broken... But I got no idea if he's even still alive.”

His voice broke, and Rochelle put a comforting hand on his knee. “Why didn't you tell us before?” she asked, careful to keep her tone free of accusation. He ran a hand over his bald head, and blew out a harsh breath.

“What happened was... Oh, Lord give me strength,” he begged at the ceiling. “His momma died in a... a gas explosion, six years ago. An' I... I couldn't take it. I started drinkin', left Kevin alone... When he was twelve his gran'pa took him away, told me I had t'get it t'gether 'fore he'd give him back. Eventually I straightened myself out... But I ain't seen my boy since then.”

Rochelle closed her eyes, startled but somehow unsurprised. A strangled cough made her look up again; Nick swallowed hard, looking chagrined.

“I... I'm sorry.”

“It's all good, brother,” Coach replied sadly. “For what it's worth, I'm sorry too.”

“For what, being in such a hurry?” the conman scoffed. “Forget about it.”

“Ya just wanna see yer family, man,” Ellis said with a supportive nudge. “Hell, it's prob'ly a damn miracle ya ain't run us inta the ground tryin' t'get ta Louisiana.”

“You're not the only one with people to find, either,” Rochelle picked up. “I think we need to change the game plan, don't you?” She gave Coach's knee an encouraging squeeze.

“You've got a sister, right?” Ellis asked her curiously. She nodded. “Do ya know if she made it out okay?”

“Ohio had plenty of warning,” she answered, ordering herself to believe her own words. “One of the last calls I got before the network went down was from Janet. She had her kids and our dad in the car, on the way to our cousin's place in South Dakota. Her husband and my fiancé stayed behind to help evacuate the neighborhood, but as far as I know, they're all fine. I just miss them.”

“I know what’cha mean,” the mechanic said. “My mom an' little sister were in Florida, an' they got evac'd 'fore they could come home. Sadie called me from the airport, but they took her phone away. I dunno where they got brought to.”

“CEDA bastards,” Nick growled tightly. “Why the hell would they confiscate phones? Do they _want_ to keep people apart?”

“Whoever's in charge did a heckuva job screwin' it up,” Coach chuckled bitterly. “Heads're gonna roll 'fore this is over, y'all mark my words.”

“More heads'n we've already cut offa zombies?” Ellis quipped, slicing a hand through the air to demonstrate.

“Lots more,” Nick told him, with a predatory smile that sent chills down Rochelle's spine. For a moment he actually looked like the assassin he'd once been, and she nearly pitied whoever he decided to hold responsible for the godawful joke called CEDA.

“So, what now?” she asked when the sadistic gleam faded from his eyes. “Are we still going to New Orleans, if nobody will be there to pick us up?”

The boys all looked seriously at each other, thinking. Rochelle cautiously hoped they might decide to change course and head north; not only would it bring her closer to her family, but she was willing to bet that the infected couldn't withstand the approaching winter. She didn't mention it, though, to avoid seeming selfish.

“You all have people to find,” Nick said at last. “It doesn't matter if CEDA's still in New Orleans or not. They had a base there, and even if they're gone I'll bet they left a bunch of shit behind. We might turn up a map, or an evac roster, or something else that'll tell us where the refugees were sent.”

Nobody asked why he hadn't included himself among those seeking their kin. They already knew the answer.

“Seems reasonable,” Coach said, and Ellis nodded agreement. Rochelle sighed, a bit disappointed, but she hadn't expected anything different.

“Let's keep an eye out on the way, though,” she suggested. “There might be other outposts with information we could use... evac points, news stations, that sort of thing. The sooner we find out where our families are, the faster we can get there.”

“Good idea,” Nick told her, then laughed a little. “Funny how single-minded we've been, huh?”

“Heh, yeah,” Ellis concurred with his trademark lopsided smile. “Runnin' for yer life takes a lotta concentration.”

“Awright,” Coach said firmly, all trace of his sadness controlled once more. “When we get goin' we'll pay more attention, see if we can't get ourselves walkin' a better path.”

Rochelle looked past his shoulder and out the window. The water reflected blinding sheets of sunlight back into her eyes, making her squint and flinch away. Beside her, Nick made a small show of shifting around, and leaned back on his arms with a sigh.

“Well, as long as we're socked in, is there anything else we should talk about?”

Ellis quietly cleared his throat. He was a little hesitant to speak, but knew he might not get another opportunity to ask.

“Uh, Coach? I been wonderin' – like, I don't mean nothin' by it, just curious... Well, y'ain't never told us yer real name – an' if ya don't wanna say, that's fine, I just...”

He trailed off before he rambled any more, and focused again on the grubby old hat in his hands. The bloody stain on the back had faded somewhat, but an ugly maroon splotch still darkened its once-white mesh. He ran a finger across it thoughtfully. That injury had turned out to be a blessing, hadn't it?

While he fidgeted, the older Georgian was silent. Just as Ellis was beginning to regret opening his mouth, Nick chimed in.

“C'mon, big guy. It's only fair.”

Coach exhaled harshly, a humorless laugh that nevertheless conceded the point.

“I hate t'say it, _Jack_ , but you're right.” He ran his hand through his nonexistent hair, and flashed Ellis a tight smile. “Dan. Daniel Barber. Go on an' forget it, now, 'cuz I don't wanna hear y'all callin' me that.”

“How come?” the mechanic asked, too curious to stop and think that his comrade might not want to talk about it. The answer made him wish he'd held his tongue.

“'Cuz Maria – my wife – was the last one who did,” Coach murmured, losing his composure again and clenching his teeth hard enough to make muscles flutter visibly along his jaw. Washed-out light cast pale shadows across his face, and the hands he'd curled into fists trembled. Ellis jammed his hat back on, and hid behind it.

“M'sorry,” he mumbled, feeling like a jerk.

“It's okay, sweetie,” Rochelle's voice came from across the circle. “I think that's enough questions for now, though, don't you?”

“...Guess so.”

Ellis peeked out from under his hat. He _always_ had more questions, especially about family, and wanted to trade stories with Rochelle until the sun went down. Now that he was paying attention, though, her face clearly said that she'd rather be left alone. He levered himself off the floor with a slight wince.

“I'm gonna tally our supplies. Do ya mind if I take yer stuff?”

“Go ahead,” Rochelle told him absentmindedly, preoccupied with tending to Coach. “Just leave us something for lunch.”

“No problem.”

He collected most of their luggage, minus four cans, and left the room with a bag slung over each shoulder. Nick followed with a sigh, and stole one off his arm.

“You don't have to carry it all yourself, sport.”

“It's only down the hall, Nick.”

“Yeah, whatever. It makes me feel like I'm helping.”

Ellis cleared a piece of floor for himself once they were back in their room. He began systematically sorting their worldly possessions, one backpack at a time, but hadn't gotten far when Nick's pacing started to get on his nerves.

“Relax, man,” he called gently over his shoulder. “Ain't’cha still tired, what with comin' back from the dead an' all?”

He heard the gambler pause behind him, aimless footsteps quieting for a moment. When they resumed they were more purposeful, and interspersed with a host of odd clattering noises.

“What’chu doin' now?” the mechanic asked, turning around.

“Cleaning,” the conman replied succinctly with his hands full of action figures. “Is that okay?”

Ellis looked him over thoughtfully, on the brink of asking one more dangerous question; but he didn't want to upset Nick like he'd done to Coach, so he kept it to himself.

“Yeah, sure. Knock yerself out.”

He continued with the inventory as his partner blitzed the room. Soon almost everything they owned lay in neat rows on the floor – except for the CD player, hidden safely under his pillow.


	16. Chapter 16

Evacuation had left the place a mess. Cleaning it all up gave Nick something to do, not strenuous enough to tax his still-recovering body, but sufficient to keep him from thinking too much. While Ellis counted and sorted and cleaned their equipment, the conman counted and sorted and organized all the adolescent detritus left by the room's former occupants. An adult's possessions might have been easier to handle – the childhood mementos in the back of the closet made his heart ache – but as the floor was gradually exposed and the shelves straightened up he felt a little better about life. Here was something he could control, an activity that produced tangible results.

When the last algebra textbook was resting in its alphabetically determined place on the shelf he stopped to survey his fastidious handiwork. All the corners were clear of junk, the desk was neatly arranged, and the closet door could close again. Heck, with liberal use of a vacuum the place might even have looked respectable. Nick carefully stretched the kinks out of his spine with a satisfied grimace, and sighed when he let himself down on his bunk. Playing housekeeper shouldn’t make him ache this much, dammit.

Despite his body's reluctance to do much of anything, the northerner felt incredibly restless. He didn't like being trapped, even if their prison was reasonably comfortable, and Coach's depression bothered him like an itch he couldn't reach. At least if they were moving the big man would have to put his troubles aside for a while.

The thought made him look over at Ellis again. The southerner was robotically stripping down his weapon for the umpteenth time, probably bored out of his hyperactive redneck mind and dealing with it the only way he could. Nick felt a little calmer as he followed those big hands confidently manipulating the metal guts of the weapon, casting glints of light from the steel. Before long he was leaning comfortably against the wall in the shadow of the upper bunk, content for the moment to watch his teammate work through slitted emerald eyes.

Rippling reflections from the surface of the water outside cast shifting patterns over the walls. The bright light was like a loose net of washed-out silver, catching everything in the room in its waving tendrils and creating the illusion that the whole place was underwater – not sunk beneath the filthy flood, but rather submerged in a crystal-clear tropical lake. Ellis positively glowed, shining like a creature out of legend while his gun sparkled like magic at his fingertips.

Upon closer inspection Nick noticed the subtle discoloration mottling the mechanic's bare arms. It would be easy to imagine them as scales, continuing his undersea flight of fancy, but instead they were a sobering reminder of reality. He looked away in shame; if he hadn't been such an overconfident idiot, the poor kid wouldn't have gotten burned saving his dumb ass.

 _Oh, so you'd rather have let that toxic whore tail you all day? Is that it?_ He scolded himself, trying to justify his actions. It didn't ease the feeling that he was responsible for Ellis' injuries, though; he took the faint damage to his teammate's skin as a painful, personal rebuke.

He snorted derisively and looked out the window, squinting into the mirrored sunlight. Off in the distance he could make out a few blurry dark spots moving around aimlessly – the infected were starting to return.

Ellis, who'd looked up at the noise, followed his eyes and groaned a little. “Sonofabitch. Can't leave us alone for five minutes, can they?” He harshly snapped the last few pieces together, hefted the reassembled pistol, and levered himself off the floor with a grimace.

“Where're you going?” asked Nick, shifting anxiously as the mechanic moved for the door. “We can't go charging off until we see dry land again.”

The Georgian exhaled firmly, somewhere between a sigh and a mocking laugh.

“Hell no. Just wanna find somethin' ta do while we're waitin'... Only so many times a guy can count clips 'fore he starts ta go insane. You comin'?”

Nick slid off the mattress with a smirk. “You seem to be assuming that you weren't insane to start with,” he quipped, and neatly dodged the expected elbow to his ribs. He'd much rather take a nap, but he just _knew_ that if he let Ellis out of sight the kid would get himself in trouble. Not that he'd admit that he wanted to keep an eye on him... The northerner barely recognized the fact himself.

“Look who's talkin', ya nutcase,” Ellis retorted with a playful glare, and slipped out the door with Nick following a half-pace behind. He stopped off in the bathroom and checked the water content of their old clothes – still fairly high – before recovering his holster, strapping it to his leg, and neatly slipping his pistol into it. Nick did the same with his own, though he didn't have his Magnum on hand to fill the brown leather accessory designed to hold it.

“Is it too much to hope that you managed to save my guns?” The question was a little more plaintive than he'd intended, but he couldn't help it. He'd grown rather attached to his powerful firearms.

The inquiry seemed to amuse the southerner, who glanced at him and chuckled darkly as he tightened a strap.

“They don't call it a 'death grip' for nothin', man. You wouldn't let go of 'em.”

Nick controlled an icy shudder that threatened to crawl down his spine at the thought, but grunted with satisfaction anyway.

“Hmph. Thanks.”

“Don't mention it,” replied Ellis as he straightened up.

The two of them locked eyes for a fraction of a second too long, and got stuck. Nick felt a sort of heat kindle in his gut, accompanied by a faint sensation of yearning emptiness that seemed to press into his skin. He didn't feel naked, exactly, but something very important was missing. He stilled his pulse with effort, and when understanding finally came he blinked in rueful surprise; it broke their tenuous contact, and the moment was over.

A faint pinkness fluttered across Ellis' high cheekbones as he looked away. The conman focused on breathing evenly, and left the suddenly stifling room as calmly as he could. He didn't really watch where he was going, though, and the first door he opened left him standing in a small closet.

 _How very appropriate,_ he snarled darkly at himself, and turned to find somewhere else to explore; but he was blocked in. The mechanic had followed him.

“Where's that go?”

He looked where Ellis pointed, up to the ceiling where a handle hung on a thin chain. It was attached to a rectangular trapdoor that was open slightly, tilted down to reveal a ladder mounted on a rolling track. Nick's curiosity piqued.

“Must be the attic,” he muttered. He reached for the dangling chain, but couldn't quite touch it before his bandages stretched painfully. A strained hiss escaped him before he could catch himself.

Ellis put a gentle hand on his shoulder to nudge him aside. Nick watched jealously as the younger man crouched, then launched himself straight up in the air to snatch the handle and drag it back down as he fell. Despite feeling somewhat inadequate in the face of the southerner's athleticism, the conman couldn't stop his heart from racing at the brief display of physical prowess. Even striped with burns, those perfectly coordinated muscles curled and flexed as beautifully as ever. The gambler did shudder then, a hot surge that rolled through his bones as his teammate hauled the ladder down and started to climb.

Only when that gorgeous, denim-hugged ass rose past eye-level and disappeared into the darkness above could Nick shake off his paralysis and follow. He gritted his teeth against twinges of pain on the way up, but fuck if he was going to let one stupid little mortal injury dictate what he could and could not do.

As he climbed he wrapped his fingers firmly around every rung, each seeming a little more solid than the last. He paused at the top, squeezing the splintery wood a bit harder as if he were wringing somebody's neck. It was a pointless gesture, he knew, but he took some satisfaction in the fact that he wasn't totally helpless. It was an awkward line between self-affirmation and feeling like a child, proud that he'd managed to tie his shoes for the first time. He tried to skirt the issue, telling himself that by all rights he should still be out for the count, but that only made things worse.

_You wouldn't be having this problem if you had an ounce of sense in the first place, dammit._

With an aggravated shake of his head Nick pulled himself up into the attic, where Ellis had drawn his pistol and begun sweeping the flashlight around the somewhat cramped space. The taller man had to hunch a bit to avoid hitting his head on the unfinished rafters, even in the center where the roof reached its peak, though his younger companion could still get away with standing upright there. A pile of suitcases was briefly illuminated as the narrow beam passed over it, so Nick sat down rather than trying to remain crouched. At the other end of the room, Ellis noisily started to ferret around.

“Find anything worth stealing?” the ex-con snarked as the sounds of rustling cardboard and cloth reached him. He was only half-looking for a reply; the darkness was forcing his thoughts inward, and he was torn between the need to sort some things out and the easy temptation to ignore them.

“Nothin' much ta yer taste, no,” Ellis answered, pausing his rummage through a box. “ _I_ think ol' photo albums are kinda neat, though. Wanna take a look?”

Nick snorted gently, and lazily twisted to grab one of the suitcases heaped at his side. It was heavy enough to be full. “Never saw the point, really,” he answered, idly feeling for the clasps. “Bunch of sentimental crap, if you ask me.”

“You don't got any pictures a' Rebecca?” the southerner asked quietly, hesitantly, his face half-visible in the light reflected from the laminated pages. Nick froze for an instant, then flung open the suitcase's hard plastic lid with considerable violence. His companion winced.

“Dammit, Overalls...” he sighed, voice close to breaking as the anger vanished as suddenly as it had come. There was another disaster he'd been too stupid to prevent... But that wasn't Ellis' fault. He grimaced, grateful for the shadows that hid his eyes, and felt all his energy vanish like water down a drain. “One. I burned it with everything else when I left Boston.”

A few soft _fwip_ s indicated that the Georgian was turning pages, apparently regretting his question. Nick carefully dug his hands into the suitcase, straining to see details of the clothing and personal effects inside. It gave him something to focus on, something besides how much he felt like a worthless piece of shit right then.

He'd rifled through every blouse before his vision adjusted to the feeble light filtering up through the trapdoor and reflecting from the mechanic's flashlight. It was enough to let him see movement out of the corner of his eye, and as he closed the lid with an authoritative _snap_ he felt the air around him change slightly. Ellis sat by his feet, drew up into a dispirited little ball and tentatively brushed the older man's knee with an apologetic squeeze.

“'M sorry, Nick,” the mechanic said roughly. “Y'know I didn't mean ta...”

A distinct uncomfortableness made the northerner's stomach turn. He unceremoniously shook off the Georgian's hand and made for the ladder, careful not to trip. Parting ways took more effort than he liked.

“It's fine. I'm gonna go take a nap or something.”

“Wait...” Ellis shifted from his position on the floor, but Nick reached up through the trapdoor and stopped him with a firm yet gentle touch.

“It's nothing you did, kiddo. Don't worry.”

The mechanic watched him descend with a feeling of near-panic. It came suddenly and was somewhat startling, enough that Ellis stopped and paid attention to it rather than let it drive him to act irrationally. He settled back onto the floor of the darkened attic, removed his hat with a sigh, and thoughtfully rubbed the back of his neck.

 _Still afraid ta let him outta yer sight, huh? Don't that just beat all..._ He chuckled wryly under his breath. _Shoulda seen it comin', I guess._

Ellis lay back, blinking slowly at the shadow-shrouded ceiling and mentally wrestling with himself. Though he could easily come to grips with that protectiveness, certain other things were slippery as swamp eels on a Sunday. Things like why he felt protective in the first place, and why he shied away from thinking about the reason. Somewhere, deep down, he knew; but all he could feel of it was a disturbingly familiar shadow. It lurked in the corners of his mind, frustrating and chilling and tantalizing all at once, and he was so preoccupied with it that he didn't even notice the stealthy scrabbling noise that came from the roof above.

* * *

 

It felt like his first day without cigarettes. A semi-desperate itch nagged deeply at him, demanding that he turn right back around and rejoin his counterpart, but with an iron will he continued down the hall instead. Ethereal reflections spread from the windows and doorways to nudge back the gloom, creating an almost dreamlike atmosphere that he found strangely comforting. If he was lost, it was fitting that he wander in shifting grey limbo until he found himself again.

He avoided the outer rooms, instead making circuit after circuit of the house to stay away from the sun. He lost track of time for a while, focusing most of his energy on resisting the absurd withdrawal he was experiencing. It really was quite ridiculous, when he thought about it. Since when did he have an issue with being alone?

Nick prowled until he began to tire, which was far sooner than he was happy with. When he circled around to the staircase again he relaxed onto the floor with a sigh, leaning against the wall with one leg propped a couple steps down. The murky water below made a small, soothing noise as it lapped gently at the wood. He closed his eyes and focused on the sound, letting it ease his yearning anxiety. Only when his nerves stopped jangling with the tremors of denied addiction did he try to get his thoughts together.

 _Why are you pretending like they matter to you?_ A smooth, icy voice whispered in his head. He growled and silently cursed himself – learning to be detached had been vital in his previous work, but now that cruel perspective was most unwelcome. _You're a drifter, Nicolas, a nobody, and you've **got** nobody. The others have family, friends, whole lives _ _to get back to, and you’re not part of them. Where are you going? What is there for you on the other side? Jack shit, and that’s how you like it._

 _Now wait a second,_ a second voice interrupted, sounding warm and reasonable compared to the first. _You weren’t exactly the happiest guy in the world, Before. Don’t you think it’s time to try something different?_

 _Like hell,_ the first part of him retorted angrily. _You were doing fine for yourself, and there's no fucking way the zombies managed to kill off every exploitable sucker in the country. You'll get back in the game._

 _“Doing fine.” Sure._ The pity cut like razor blades. _You told the others, but you can't admit it to yourself? Give it up. Move on._

 _Fuck that,_ the cold side of him hissed. _Get your shit together, Nicolas, and screw your head back on straight. What else are you gonna do –  turn into some kind of candy-ass who can't make it on his own? Drive yourself crazy when they leave you behind? Either way, you're dead._

The dueling voices faded like echoes into the recesses of his mind. He felt like crying, or killing something, or pouring himself a very strong drink. Instead he merely sat there, furious and terrified, grasping at straws and false hopes. It was a twisted kind of funny, he realized: the apocalypse had been ravaging the world for weeks, but only now did he truly feel like his life was spiraling out of control.

Nick dragged his hands through his hair as though he wanted to tear it out. As he did so a bandage on his arm caught his eye, and he paused to contemplate its grubby off-white threads. He gently touched the gauze, noting how painstakingly it was layered over his burned skin. It probably needed to be changed soon, but that wasn't what fascinated him. Ellis had treated his wounds so carefully, so tenderly... The wild and desperate look in his eyes was the first thing Nick remembered seeing when he woke up, and his expression of exquisite relief was the second. The ex-con shivered slightly, grateful that he seemed to have blocked out the sensations of actually being revived, and chewed his lip thoughtfully.

He'd really died, hadn't he? His heart had stopped. His breath had stopped. For a moment, he'd ceased to exist. Where had he gone, in that flash of time before Ellis had called him home? Why did he now feel like a shadow of himself, like a spirit bound to the necromancer who'd raised him from hell? What of himself had he lost, on the other side – and how could he get it back? Did he even want to? Were Ellis’ actions proof that there really was something here to fight for, or was he just deluding himself?

 _I could push him away again,_ Nick thought grimly, _but cutting myself off from him entirely is just as bad as giving up_. _I have to take control of this, dammit. **Me**._

_...Whoever that is._

He groaned, tipping his head back to go _thunk_ against the wall.

* * *

 

Three uncomfortable, quiet, awkward days later, all four of them were desperate to move on. Though their bodies healed in the downtime, the sheer density of angst in the house was enough to make Rochelle want to scream.

Coach was preoccupied with his thoughts, speaking only to gently deflect her concern. Nick seemed more and more ready to strangle someone every time she saw him, which was infrequently. Ellis had confided in her again, something vague about music and high school and old photographs, but wouldn't answer her questions about anything – or anyone – else. “Sorry, Ro,” he'd say, blue eyes sliding apologetically away from her face. “I 'preciate it, but...” He never finished the sentence.

At first she felt like the only sane one left, and tried her best to keep their spirits up, but when they all pushed her away she fell into a funk of her own. Somehow they largely managed to avoid each other during the day, despite the small size of their prison; only at night, when they slept in pairs and woke each other for watch, did their gloomy paths cross.

Each morning she jogged around the hall to keep from getting too jittery. She noticed that Ellis liked to hide in the attic, and when she was done exercising, Nick would emerge from their quarters to camp out on the staircase. After her run Rochelle took full advantage of the miraculously still-running water, shutting herself into the bathroom for a shower. The low temperature didn't matter; getting clean was more than worth the temporary chill.

She'd return to the master bedroom still trying to dry the tangled rat’s nest of her hair. Coach slept, or tended his weapons, or stared out the window with a faraway look on his face. Rather than bother him, Rochelle set about reading her way through a small bookshelf next to the bed. By the time the flood had receded she was going through two or three short novels per day.

When a dark and slimy delta began to emerge from the encompassing waters, she took it upon herself to get the boys back together. They were reluctant, and definitely needed a kick in the pants, but at Rochelle's insistence the gang finally assembled, subdued. In the late afternoon light she could make out worry lines marring Ellis' face, and Nick seemed more than a little tormented. Coach took long, measured breaths, as if meditating, but periodically caught at his lower lip with his teeth. The journalist looked at them all with heartache, rubbed her forehead, and inhaled deeply to steel herself.

“All right, guys. If the weather's still good tomorrow, we're getting out of here,” she began firmly. “We need to be on top of our game-” She glanced at Coach, who met her eye with the smallest of smiles. “-and that means no more sulking around, okay? I don't really care how... how _existential_ you feel, as long as you can run and shoot and keep your minds on survival.” She sought each of their gazes in turn, making sure they understood. “You've got 'til morning to get yourselves together. Can you handle it?”

Coach crossed an arm over his chest to rub idly at his shoulder, and gave her the kind of sad, reassuring smile she hadn't seen since they'd arrived. He didn't say anything, but the slight pinch at the corner of his eyes was enough. She covered his hand with her own, and looked up at the younger men for an answer.

Nick and Ellis were facing each other, the latter's expression concerned and pleading while the former's bordered on a challenge. Rochelle watched with interest as the mechanic's mouth tightened a bit, and discreetly cleared her throat when it seemed as though the two of them had forgotten they weren't alone. They jumped a little at the sound, and Ellis grinned ruefully when he finally took notice of her.

“Uh, yeah. Yeah, we'll be fine.”

The northerner, like Coach, did not reply verbally. He caught Rochelle's eye with that intense emerald stare, and she thought she saw a flicker of vulnerability in it before the full impact dared her to think he wouldn't be ready the next day. He held her there for the span of a blink – if she'd been able to blink – before leaving the room. Ellis followed, casting a sheepish look back at her on the way.

“If it ain't one thing, it's another,” the old Georgian sighed, taking a seat on the bed. “I never know what t'think 'bout them two.”

“You and me both,” Rochelle concurred tiredly, fishing in her bag for dinner. Their supplies were running dangerously low by now. “I can't wait to get out of here. Fresh air will make us all feel better.” She pulled out her last energy bar and began to open it, slowly, intending to savor every chocolate-and-peanut-butter bite.

The crinkling of the wrapper masked a low growl coming from the roof over their heads.

* * *

 

Ellis was a little worried and a little confused. Nick had been acting funny, sleeping alone and avoiding him even though he claimed nothing was wrong. The mechanic had respected his wishes, and made himself scarce in the attic with the old books and photo albums and other cool junk he found up there, but he'd still been uneasy.

The whole situation was starting to mess with his head. Just yesterday he'd caught himself staring at a page of pictures, mentally inserting his life into the stories they represented. That kid looked a little like Keith, didn't he? And this guy, apparently at a wedding, wore a suit just like Nick's. The imaginative mechanic hadn't been able to tear his eyes away from that one until a weird noise snapped him out of his reverie, prompting him to spend a fruitless half-hour checking the whole house for infected. Later that night he'd dreamed about being there at the wedding reception, and eating all kinds of awesome food, and seeing Nick glow with a brilliant white radiance like Ellis couldn't believe. Now the northerner looked a little out of place, striding down the hall in blue jeans and a dark purple t-shirt. He seemed like a tiger in a too-small cage, or a priceless gem covered in dirt that didn't let it shine. He didn't belong here.

Once they were back in their room Nick emphatically threw the door shut. Before Ellis could so much as raise an eyebrow the conman grabbed his arm, spun him around, and slammed his back against the wall hard enough to bruise.

“ _Ow_ , Nick, wh-”

The question died on his lips and was swept away by his assailant's tongue. In an instant he felt more sensation than he had in the last few days combined; after all that time alone, he didn't even think to question the sudden onslaught of intimacy that lit him up like the Fourth of July. He surged against Nick's hold on his wrists, trying to get a hand under that aubergine shirt, but was stopped short by the muscular thigh wedged aggressively between his legs. The attempt resulted in a delicious friction, and he could not keep from moaning quietly into their kiss.

Either the sound or the faint tremor was cue enough for the conman to roll his hips, repeating the pressure that sent Ellis' head rocketing into the clouds. He got lost in the competing movement of their bodies, the possessive struggle as each fought to claim the other, and relished every second of it until Nick broke away to nip gently at his ear.

“Tell me you're ready.”

His voice was rough and low, impossibly heated and downright _hungry_. Ellis' knees threatened to give out, from terror or pleasure or anticipation he couldn't tell, but he was pinned to the wall and completely defenseless as his partner's sharp teeth raised bruises on his neck. Wave after wave of violent sensation crashed over him, from the bites that sent goosebumps flashing across his skin to the semi-rhythmic grinding against his painfully restraining jeans. He answered without thinking, completely consumed by desire, responding more to the intoxicating caress of the conman's mouth than to his harsh request for permission.

“ _Ohhh_ , gawd... Hell _yeah_...”

He could feel Nick's body react with a shudder, and took the chance to try for the upper hand. He pushed forward, driving them both off the wall and towards the bed; but before they made it more than a few steps the northerner twisted, bringing them to the ground and forcibly straddling his prisoner's hips. Ellis' hat fell off as he landed on his back, pinned to the floor now with those fiery emerald eyes locked on his own like lasers. He immediately tried to sit up and roll them over, but Nick forced him back down with another kiss that turned his muscles into spaghetti. He melted into it, unable to resist even when his partner released one of his arms to start tugging at his zipper. Only when their mouths were once more separated by a thin space of heavy breathing could the younger man even attempt to retaliate.

“H- hang on, Nick, I...” he panted, reaching down to get a grip on the other's insistently exploring hand. He tried to clear some space for himself and only succeeded in starting another wrestling match. He struggled to physically express some measure of dominance, a little scared at how strong and demanding the conman was; then their lips met again, and he gave in as quickly as flipping a switch.

“I need this,” Nick whispered hoarsely as he broke away, resting their foreheads together. His tone was desperate enough to be heartbreaking. “Just tell me... please...”

Ellis swallowed nervously, trembling, exquisitely aware of the position he was in – but it was the fear of someone already committed, halfway out of the plane with no other choice but to jump. He could only trust that Nick wouldn't let him fall.

He tipped his head back, and stretched up to claim the gambler's mouth with his own.

Immediately their actions took on a new urgency. Nick released his hands and they began scrabbling at each other's clothing, still straining to remain linked by their kiss. A small part of Ellis felt like he was hovering somewhere off to the side, watching, still juggling whole bucketfuls of terror and uncertainty – but that part was disconnected, isolated, and powerless. The rest of him was inexplicably greedy, and that dangerous feeling he'd so far been unable to face burst out to leap joyfully into the moment. Under the tingling and buzzing and primal thrill, he was _happy_ to give Nick what he needed. It was the only reason he was able to surrender in the first place.

Ellis finally flung his shirt away, and Nick immediately pulled him into another kiss with one hand while undoing his jeans with the other. The mechanic reached down to take over the task and in the blink of an eye the heavy denim pulled away, zipper forced open by the bulging stress from inside. The conman exhaled a small sigh of relief, and gratefully squeezed at his partner’s hips before standing up.

Ellis almost whined with reluctance, but quickly took advantage of it to rid himself of his remaining clothing. Barely a second later he felt himself hauled off the floor, then shoved forward hard enough to get instant rugburn. He winced with a small exclamation of pain and rose indignantly from his elbows to hands and knees, but protest withered in his throat.

Nick stood towering above him, slowly pushing off his pants. From this angle half of him was wreathed in a sunset-gilded glow, while impossibly black shadows underlined every chiseled dip and curve of his body. Ellis felt his heart race and eyes go wide as the stonewashed fabric slid farther and farther down the narrow hips before him, exposing more and more battle-scarred skin as they fell away. He followed the thin trail of dark hair that led down the gambler's toned abs, down to the length of hardened flesh that seemed to be much bigger than he remembered, and nervously licked his lips.

Before he could fully process what was happening Nick discarded the jeans altogether and knelt down to kiss him deeply. Ellis shifted his weight onto one hand so he could touch his partner with the other, shuddering at the scratch of stubble against his fingertips and the honeyed velvet tongue filling his mouth. Slowly he let his arm fall from Nick's cheek to the silky skin of his cock, which earned him a gently bitten lip and intensely appreciative hum before the gambler seemingly couldn't wait any longer. With a final, forceful embrace he pushed the Georgian back to the floor and hastily turned to their supplies.

“In my bag,” Ellis offered breathlessly. “Small pocket on the left. Ain't’cha glad I kept it, now?”

The older man checked the suggested location and withdrew the bottle of lube and a condom, smirking faintly. “All right, El, you win. Now relax,” he growled.

He moved behind the mechanic and nudged his legs a little farther apart. Ellis looked anxiously back over his shoulder to see the thick, clear gel pile up on Nick’s fingers. He stared, fascinated, until the northerner caught him watching and forced his face back down. The southerner got another electric thrill, not sure he liked this treatment; but being unable to see added another layer of anticipation that only heightened his burgeoning excitement. He obediently dropped his head to examine the rug, listening with all his might to the squishy sound of lubricant being squeezed from the bottle.

The touch of Nick's hand on his hip made him jump, prompting another growled command to relax that didn't help at all. He was nearly suffocating with the tension, digging his fists into the carpet and already biting his lip to keep from making noise. He was so worked up that the first questing finger was nearly an anticlimax; he'd expected big, hard, and sudden, not the gentle probing that felt more awkward than anything else. It was an extraordinarily bizarre sensation, and not very comfortable, but it was so much better than what he'd been braced for that he almost laughed in relief.

Nick took advantage of the moment of lessened tension to insert a second finger. Ellis inhaled sharply, now feeling a slight but painful burning as delicate muscles were stretched farther than they were ever designed to go. He bit back a moan and squeezed his eyes shut, managing not to squirm or complain, firmly believing that something good would happen soon. Until then all he could do was endure the intrusion, the movement inside that was like nothing he'd ever experienced before.

His discomfort must have been evident, because mere seconds later Nick's other hand slipped quietly from his hip and curled beneath his waist. Ellis gasped as strong fingers wrapped around his very confused cock and began to stroke.

“Take it easy, fireball,” the conman whispered, harsh but passionate. “I swear to god I'm gonna make you feel so good... Just calm down...”

“Nnh... Nick...” Ellis managed in a low whimper, thrilling to his partner's voice and touch despite the continued unpleasantness of the preparation. “S- so weird... Ain't even- _AH_!” A particularly rough jab of Nick's fingers sent shock waves through his body, both from pain and absurdly intense pleasure. His eyes flew open with an involuntary jerk.

The northerner paused, then experimentally repeated the motion. Ellis groaned helplessly as pure endorphins flooded his brain, utterly annihilating his discomfort and prompting him to rock backwards onto Nick's hand.

“Yeah, you like that?” the older man asked lustfully, almost cruelly, and insistently redoubled his efforts to hit that sweet spot over and over. “I can give you more, so goddamn much more, is that what you want?”

The mechanic couldn't even begin to imagine “more,” but craved it with every lightning-sparked nerve in his body. He threw his head back with a hungry noise as slippery fluid began to leak from his cock, spreading all down his shaft with the movement of Nick's hand.

“Ah, _shit..._ want’chu... Ohgod...”

That was all it took. Ellis bit his tongue as the conman withdrew, leaving him strangely empty and longing for contact. He wiggled impatiently, reaching down to give himself a few tantalizing strokes while Nick dealt with the lube again. His heart was going a mile a minute by now, though his fear had all but vanished; it was raw, unbridled excitement that made his limbs shake, and unprecedented arousal that made his head spin. When at last he felt a firm, smooth pressure against his tender entrance he thought he would explode.

“Do it,” he demanded eagerly, preempting a final request for confirmation. He thought he might have heard a satisfied chuckle in response, but couldn't be sure because of the blood roaring in his ears.

Slowly, ever so very slowly, Nick eased himself inside – and it hurt, just like his fingers, only more so. Ellis stifled a cry and dropped his head, arms locking up to prevent collapse as the tip of the conman's erection moved back and forth in tiny increments. He spread his knees a little more to ease the pain, and grit his teeth so hard his jaw ached. Behind and above he could hear Nick's shuddering sigh of approval, tempered with determined restraint, and decided that going slow wasn't worth it. It was obvious that the northerner was holding back for his sake, but he wanted that fantastic blast again and he wanted it _now_. With a huge act of will Ellis forced his muscles to stop fighting, and as soon as Nick began to lean forward again he pushed back – hard.

He very nearly screamed.

“ _Fuck_ ,” the gambler breathed exultantly, too shocked to move.

“Wh- what're y'waitin' for? K- keep goin'... Please..” the mechanic panted as the impact receded slightly. He'd never felt so completely helpless in his life; he was at his lover's mercy, begging for more of that humiliating agony just so he could experience the incredible euphoria that came with it.

Nick seemed to ignore the question at first, and shifted around a bit to fully appreciate how deep he was inside. Ellis whined with discomfort and impatience, a sound that did nothing to get him what he asked for.

“I want to remember this,” the northerner whispered, leaning forward to nip at the curve of the mechanic's neck and run possessive hands down his trembling sides. “After all, I might never get another chance...”

But despite his words, Nick did not delay for much longer. Just when Ellis thought he couldn't suffer another second of aching fullness, the gambler unhurriedly began to pull back. The slick friction was yet another new feeling that the Georgian wasn't sure he liked; but then his partner thrust forward again, and the whole world shattered around him.

In an instant he was face-down in the carpet, worshiping at a carnal altar and absolutely out of his mind with rapture. It was sensory overload of the most phenomenal kind: the rug tore at his bare skin, his muscles were on fire, and he couldn't stay quiet as Nick pounded him into a deliriously incoherent wreck on the floor. He was barely able to breathe, but used what little air he had to spur his lover on with whimpers and groans and half-stifled obscenities.

“F- fuck... _ahh_ ho-lee _shit_ -!”

“God, Ellis, you are _so... goddamn... beautiful..._ ” Nick panted, hungrily dragging his fingers across the muscles of the younger man's back. Ellis arched into his hands as best he could, yearning for more of the hot, slowly growing buzz that peaked with every deep plunge of the northerner's rigid cock. Like the waves of an incoming tide, each pounding heartbeat and jackhammer thrust brought him high on a sudden crest of pleasure that did not recede all the way. Gradually he filled up with a pain like heavenly temptation, a brewing storm that threatened to destroy all he was and ever had been, an impossible ache he knew would feel _so good_ when it stopped – but he couldn't stand to think of it ending...

His heart became the rhythm as Nick rammed into him over and over and over. Nothing else existed – not the room, not the house, not the zombies outside or the uncertain fate of tomorrow – it was just the two of them, the movement, the proof that they needed each other just as much as food or water or guns. The knowledge set Ellis alight, amplified the crescendo rising in his bones, plugged a million watts into his spine and hit the switch.

“Jesus... _Chriiiist_ , Nick... N- Nick, oh god... _ohgodohgodohgod_ \---!”

It crashed over him like a tsunami. The tremors started in his gut and multiplied, shaking his world to pieces with a sweet madness he could not contain. He silently roared to the sky as brilliance exploded in his brain, radiating white-hot light from his wordless mouth and unseeing eyes. In that moment he forgot who he was, dove endlessly into the glorious blackness of space and vanished with all the vivid force of a star gone supernova.

Nick felt his strength return as he threw himself into the movement. Physically it was amazing beyond his wildest imagination; but more powerful than the hot, tight, impossibly delicious sensations surging through him was a completeness he'd never dared dream of. The control and confirmation he'd craved seemed petty next to the consuming passion that bound the two of them together, the absolute certainty that this was _right_. Ellis had saved him in more ways than he could count; now he felt it in the friction of their bodies, and tasted it in the sweat of his skin. That sweet southern voice cried out his name in a way that made his head sing, and as the music grew louder he finally took the truth to heart: there was nothing for him to find in New Orleans, because everything he wanted was already here.

The realization bloomed like fire in his chest. He felt Ellis go tense around him and surged even harder, faster, simultaneously dazed with bliss and more certain than he'd ever been in his life. When the dizzying inferno claimed him at last he fell forward to clutch his lover tight, releasing all his doubts and self-anguish with the liquid heat that spilled from him like an ivory river. He burned with exultant flame and melted into the air as his bones rang like church bells on Christmas, resonating through his blood and shaking him apart with pure, unbridled joy. He buried his face into Ellis' trembling shoulder, heaving ragged breaths through unbidden tears and a smile so wide it hurt.


	17. Chapter 17

By the time they came to their senses the sun hung tangent to the horizon, filling the room with a warm ruby glow. Nick washed up on the shore of reality like a man half-drowned, breathless and clutching his lifeline tight. As he slowly regained mastery of his body he squeezed a little harder, drawing the moment into himself while getting as close to Ellis as he possibly could. He savored every detail: the hot interface of their sweat-slick skin and its musky, intoxicating scent; the ragged sound of their combined gasps for air; the resonant frequency of their gently heaving chests and trembling limbs; and the ludicrous, soaring elation that outshone even the radiant citrine light that lanced through the huge bay window.

It was with incredible reluctance that they finally separated. Nick shifted his weight back onto his own knees and Ellis shakily crawled forward a few inches, trembling as they slowly and gradually peeled themselves apart. The conman grimaced as he slipped gently out of his lover's warmth, the friction just a little too intense now, but he still didn't want to give it up. When at last they were two bodies again he sat back on his heels and got rid of the condom, tying it off and tossing it aside without really aiming. It landed over in the corner, somewhere he didn't see.

Ellis choked on a whimper as Nick eased away, suddenly very conscious of the vast, aching emptiness he left behind. The mechanic gingerly turned over and flopped onto his back, carefully avoiding the pearly mess he'd left on the carpet and blushing furiously at the sight of it. He was too spent to move much yet, so he closed his eyes and just let himself absorb the bittersweet glory coursing through his slowly cooling blood. He felt like a wrung-out sponge gradually returning to its proper shape, lungs filling with life-giving air as his breath fell into a more even rhythm.

He felt Nick moving around nearby and heard the soft rustle of fabric before a pair of boxers landed across his face. Sputtering with surprised laughter he sat up, glaring accusingly at his partner as he pawed the clothing out of his eyes. The conman had his own underwear back on and was regarding his shirt without much interest, figuring – correctly – that Ellis would like it better if he were to remain topless. He discarded the violet article and let himself down to the floor, leaning back on his arms and squinting contentedly into the molten sunset.

The light continued to do fascinating things to Nick's body. The exhausted southerner watched it as he dragged his boxers on one leg at a time, hypnotized by the shadows and a strangely giddy calm that padded his head with sweet marshmallow fluff. Under the tangle of dark hair dusted across his chest the older man's smooth, sweat-glazed scars reflected a fluctuating caramel-red, standing out from the matte, uninjured skin around them. Ellis fastened his button with uncooperative fingers and curled up to rest his cheek on his stinging knees, tentatively reaching out to follow a jagged mark that trailed halfway down the northerner's right side. Nick hummed quietly as he stared into space, emerald eyes glinting with sunset-gold reflections.

“How'dja get this?” the Georgian murmured, reversing direction to stroke the old wound again. His companion smiled a sad little smile, still gazing absently out the window.

“One of my first kills. Screwed up, got caught, had to fight my way out.” He chuckled, almost fondly, remembering something that was clearly much more amusing in hindsight than it had been at the time. “Only guy I've ever known who could bring a knife to a gunfight and win – not that I lost, but it was close.”

Ellis shivered, winced as his abused muscles complained about it, and let his fingertips roam to the ex-assassin's shoulder instead. “What about this one?” he asked, drawing a gentle circle around the small pink mark left by a bullet. Nick glanced down at it, brow furrowed.

“Training new initiates. What was his name... Alex, I think? Got a little ahead of himself, didn't wait for the all-clear before target practice. His father nearly killed him.”

The mechanic hissed sympathetically. “Keith did somethin' like that once. Shot me in the leg with his dad's .45, by accident a'course, but he wasn't supposed ta be playin' with it in the first place.”

“How the hell did that happen?” Nick asked, genuinely curious.

“Tryin' ta catch a fox,” Ellis replied with a misty smile. “His Pa whupped him good, when he found out, an' made him pay the hospital bill. Wasn't all that bad, though. I didn't even hafta stay overnight.”

“Why you hung out with that assclown, I'll never know,” the older man muttered, turning back to the window.

Ellis sighed heavily, but didn't answer. Instead he continued to explore Nick's violent past, caressing an irregular gash that crossed his abdomen and gently running a finger down the thin white line that sliced a narrow gap in the soft hair of his forearm. He paused briefly, as though on the cusp of another question, but released his breath unasked and let his hand fall. With a tiny noise of effort he scooched himself closer, and leaned in to rest his head on the soft muscle of his lover's upper chest.

They remained quiet as the sun slowly died, watching the light fade through the colors of a hot rainbow and into a deep, silver-washed blue. Only when dark had truly fallen did Ellis realize how completely dead-tired he was.

“Bedtime, sport?” Nick asked warmly as the younger man shuddered his way through a huge yawn.

“I feel like I could sleep for a week.”

“Too bad we're shipping out tomorrow,” the northerner said wistfully, shifting to wrap an arm around Ellis' shoulders. “I'd be happy with another few days of this.”

The mechanic closed his eyes happily for a moment, arching his back into the embrace to prompt a gentle half-hug. “Me, too,” he sighed. “But we've barely got any food left. We just gotta make it ta the next safehouse alive, then we'll have s'more time.”

“Now that's what I call motivation,” Nick said with a smirk, and began to stand up. He helped Ellis to his feet, too, then threw himself down into his bunk with a sleepy _oof_ and watched his partner gingerly stretch the kinks from his body.

“ _Ow_ ,” the southerner grunted, twisting from the waist and eliciting several impressive popping noises from his spine. Nick winced.

“Are you okay, El?” he asked ruefully. “I didn't... really hurt you, did I?”

“Nah, I'm fine,” Ellis answered, and came to join him in bed with a mischievous grin. “Hell, even if I wasn't, it wouldn't stop me from doin' that again.” He slid under the covers, forced close up against his partner by the narrow mattress. It was a little weird after sleeping alone on the top bunk for the last few nights, but not in a bad way. Not at all.

Nick let the younger man wrap around him, a bit thoughtful. “What changed your mind?” he asked softly, drawing the blankets more securely over them.

Ellis was silent for a moment, gentle puffs of breath tickling the northerner's skin, before he released a harsh sigh and shifted a bit to get more comfortable. “I realized I was bein' stupid,” he muttered. “When ya... well, when ya _died_ , I mean... For a bit there I thought that was it, like, game over. But then ya came back, an'... I got a second chance. An' we could all die t'morrow, y'know, so what the hell'm I doin' worryin' about shit? Just go for it, an' damn the consequences.”

“But you still waited for me to start it.”

“Well, yeah. Knowin' it's dumb to be scared don't make it any less scary. An' ya seemed ta wanna be alone for a while.”

“True,” Nick murmured, and squeezed his lover tight. “I'm glad you were ready, though. For whatever reason.”

“Ya needed me,” Ellis stated simply.

Nick closed his eyes, thanking a God he was starting to believe in again for the man he now held in his arms.

“I still do, kiddo. And that's not gonna change.”

* * *

 

In the grey hours of the morning Rochelle came to wake them with a knowing little smile on her face. She didn't say anything, just shook Ellis' bare shoulder and tiptoed out of the room when his eyes drifted open. He raised his head and blinked at her retreating back with a bleary pout, then looked down at Nick and grinned like an idiot.

When he sat up to get out of bed the grin vanished with a stifled moan. He ached, everywhere, especially his legs and the general area between them. Moving made him double over in pain, arms wrapped protectively around his stomach until he grew accustomed to the feeling. The shock subsided slowly, leaving a dull throb centered somewhere in his lower gut and shooting faint twinges through his muscles. He snorted quietly, realizing that he should have expected this, and carefully stood up to ease the cramps out of his limbs. After a moment the fatigue began to feel like the burn of a good workout, so Ellis decided to get moving with some push-ups and football stretches.

“Gooood morning, campers,” Nick purred as he sat up. The younger man glanced up from his routine to see him watching, and gave a lopsided smile.

“Havin' fun?”

“Mmhmm,” the conman answered, thoroughly pleased by the display he'd woken up to. Ellis showed off by dipping to the floor a few more times, muscles rippling as they flexed, before springing to his feet.

“Aah, that wasn't the greatest idea ever,” he said with a grimace, putting a hand to his lower back.

“You gonna be okay?” Nick inquired with concern, standing to perform a luxuriant stretch of his own.

“Uh... Yeah, I'll be... I'll be fine,” Ellis stammered, eyes fixed on his teammate's bare torso and vividly remembering how it had felt, hot and strong against his back. He wrenched his gaze away before blood rushed to his face, and deliberately began to prepare their supplies for hitting the road.

There wasn't much left. In fact, between the two of them, breakfast consisted of a single can of baked beans and a plastic jar of mixed nuts. The mechanic set the food aside and re-packed their other survival equipment, sighing with resignation at how empty the bags were. It looked like they'd be going hungry again.

“Hey, which do you think is better?”

Ellis glanced up and failed to choke back a shocked burst of laughter. Nick stood by the closet, somberly contemplating two dress shirts in a mirror on the back of the open door. When he heard his teammate's reaction he archly raised an eyebrow, and patiently waited for the merriment to subside.

“What?”

The southerner couldn't answer through another fit of the giggles.

“You're no help,” the gambler muttered, maintaining his comically snobbish attitude for the benefit of his audience. He held first one, then the other garment up against himself, examining them with a critical gaze. One was a cobalt blue, not unlike his old shirt, and the other was a deep green that didn't quite match his eyes. Neither was as well-made as his own, and they were cheap cotton-poly instead of 30% silk, but they were _clean_. Not to mention in one piece.

“Y- yer ditchin' yer suit?” Ellis asked, finally getting himself under control. “Ya can't do that, man, it's, like, yer _thing_! What if we get split up, an' we can't findja 'cuz we're lookin' for white an' it ain't there...?”

“Woah there, fireball, take it easy,” Nick said with a smirk. “I'll keep the jacket, okay? But the pants are falling apart, and I think you ripped the buttons off my shirt when we got here...”

“An' since when is havin' yer shirt open a problem?” his companion retorted with a sly grin.

“Quiet, you,” Nick growled playfully, and emphatically raised his choices again. “Blue or green?”

“Um... Go with the blue,” the younger man answered hesitantly. “It's easier ta spot... an' it looks nice on ya.” He smiled, a faint blush painted across his nose.

Nick preened inside as he slipped the garment on. “All right, what about you? Your old shirt's pretty nasty.”

Ellis sobered immediately, forehead creasing into a sad frown as he dropped his gaze to the floor. One glance told Nick that the grimy article was way more to the kid than just something to wear.

“Hey,” he called gently, drawing the mechanic's attention back up. “Who said anything about leaving it behind?”

The gratitude in those big blue eyes was enough to make the conman feel awkward. He hid it well, though, and merely raised an understanding eyebrow before turning to search for a more comfortable pair of jeans.

Ellis resisted the urge to fling himself at his partner in thanks. Instead he swallowed the lump in his throat, and left for the bathroom to collect their original clothes.

Nick tried on a few different pairs of jeans before finding some that wouldn't pull tight and interfere with a desperate sprint to safety. He finished getting dressed, tightly folded a few extra pairs of socks and boxers to take with them, and was giving the room a final once-over when Ellis returned with his arms full of clothes. Nick claimed his formerly white jacket and watched from the corner of his eye as the younger man got ready to go, donning a yellow “Tuskegee Tigers” t-shirt and pulling his coveralls back on. The faithful blue canvas was in as good shape as its owner – impressive, given how much it had been through.

“Got everything?” Nick asked as Ellis reverently tucked his threadbare _Bullshifters_ shirt into a pocket of his bag. The Georgian glanced around, seeming satisfied, but snapped his fingers halfway through zipping the satchel closed.

“One sec,” he said, moving to the bed. He climbed to the top bunk and reached under the pillow to retrieve the silver Walkman he'd kept there since that first stormy night – something in him didn't want Nick to know about it, but there was no way he was going to leave it behind.

The gambler smiled inside as Ellis securely stowed the CD player and padded it with fabric. At last the younger man swung his bag up onto one shoulder and his rifle strap over the other, settled his hat firmly on top of his sandy curls, and grinned like they were going to Kiddieland.

“All right, I'm thinkin' we can take on _anything_!”

“'Atta boy,” Nick said encouragingly, and planted a briskly possessive kiss on the southerner's cheek before gathering his own supplies.

“Hey, fellas, looking sharp,” Rochelle complimented when they came in from washing up. She'd changed, too, but like the others had chosen to maintain a familiar color scheme. Her new top was a slightly darker pink, bore the insignia of a local restaurant, and hung somewhat loosely on her wiry frame. She'd also swapped her skintight jeans for cargo pants, and now wondered why the hell she hadn't done so earlier – they were more comfortable by a long shot, and the pockets were perfect for quick retrieval of ammo.

Coach glanced up at the younger men for a moment before choosing to focus very hard on the can of soup in his hands. Ellis, about to wish him good morning, was taken aback by the snub and closed his mouth with a confused expression. Rochelle giggled, and looked as meaningfully as she could at the mechanic without bursting into hysterics. His eyes flicked back and forth between her and the older Georgian, then went wide as saucers over a brilliantly scarlet blush.

“J- Jesus Christ, guys, I am _so sorry_...”

“Oh, for crying out loud,” Nick chuckled with a self-satisfied grin. “I ain't apologizing for jack shit. Let's eat and get out of here.”

“Amen,” Coach muttered so only Rochelle could hear. She just kept laughing.

After a meager but entertainingly awkward breakfast they finally set off. Their first priority was food, so it was with trepidation that they angled towards the highway and the somewhat denser clusters of buildings they hoped to find around it. Rochelle was gratified to note that while her oldest teammate had retreated into a shell of silent determination, the boys were in high spirits. Extremely high. Practically giddy, in fact, and their exuberance – combined with her knowledge of the cause – made her unable to stop smiling. She couldn't help but laugh at their good-natured squabbles over who'd stolen whose kill, and didn't mind in the slightest when they called her in to referee. It was nice, very nice, to have such a cheerful dynamic between them, and by what should have been lunchtime, even Coach was cheering up.

Their boisterous behavior was pretty much the only pleasant thing for miles around. The flood had left silt, mud, and debris everywhere, the infected were once again roaming the streets, and the only shop they found had already been looted and destroyed. They scrounged what scraps they could and moved on, approaching the highway late in the morning and cautiously climbing an on-ramp to get the lay of the land.

“Hey, check it out,” Ellis said happily, pulling off his hat to wipe the sweat from his brow. “The road ain't so congested out here. Think we can stick on it for a while?”

It was true. Although the main roads leading out of Savannah had been solid walls of twisted metal, there weren't nearly as many cars on a minor route this far from civilization. A careful driver could weave between the scattered wrecks, meaning that there was plenty of room for the four of them on foot.

“I don't know,” Rochelle said slowly. “What if we need to scatter? It's up pretty high...”

“It's wide enough to dodge a charger,” Nick commented, peering through his scope at something a few hundred yards away. “Speaking of which...” His rifle's shot split the air with thunder, and he lowered it with a satisfied smirk. “Never mind.”

“Good shootin', Tex!” Ellis laughed. “So're we clear, or-”

“Quiet,” Coach ordered suddenly. The others fell silent immediately, forming up and raising their guns in preparation.

“What is it?” Rochelle whispered over her shoulder, not taking her eyes off their surroundings.

The older Georgian squeezed his eyes shut, listening hard, but eventually relaxed with a sigh and shake of his head. “Coulda sworn there's one'a them punk-ass hunters around... I been hearin' growlin' an' shit all day. Y'all keep an eye out.”

“No problem-o,” his countryman chirped as they stood down. The journalist felt a flutter of concern in her stomach, but nodded her understanding. Nick did the same, happy smirk tightening slightly into a grimmer, more familiar expression. His eyes picked up some of their usual hardness as they swept the landscape, searching, ready to shoot on sight.

“If we're being followed, it's safer up here,” he said slowly, with sure authority in his voice. “Not even a hunter can make it from the ground in one go, so we've got less to keep an eye on.”

“That decides that,” Rochelle said firmly after a moment with no objections. “I think this road'll take us to I-85. Holler if you spot something to eat.”

“But not too loud, young'un,” Coach rumbled with a tiny, nervous smile.

They continued west at a brisk pace. Asphalt beat the pants off rough country terrain; that and their feather-light backpacks ensured they made good time. None of the infected presented any sort of problem, not even the witch they found sobbing in the backseat of a totaled Sonata. Ellis was tempted to piss her off for fun, but Coach nipped that idea in the bud by threatening to lock the mechanic in there with her. Once or twice they heard a low growl, but it was always so quiet that they'd second-guess themselves as soon as it vanished.

Other than that, it was smooth sailing. They found a convenience store in the midafternoon, feasted on Cheetos and beef jerky, filled up on bottled water, and continued on. Nothing they came across looked like it would have any information they could use; they were still in the middle of nowhere, far enough out that the only trace of CEDA activity was a huge orange billboard advising citizens of where the nearest evac was: back on the border, in Columbus, Georgia. There were no designated saferooms, either, so when night fell they holed up in an overturned tractor-trailer. Sleep was hard to come by, but they'd traveled a considerable distance that day and were quite tired. Eventually they all managed to ignore the cold steel floor to get some rest.

The next day was much the same – and the next, and the next. They were forced to slow down by the scarcity of food; each day it took more searching to find enough to eat. The road returned to ground-level, but remained open and gave them fairly good visibility in both directions. Despite this, they still couldn't shake the feeling that they were being followed. Constantly half-hearing the snarl of an invisible hunter was driving Coach up the wall, and it was made worse every time they killed one and the noise didn't stop.

Nick and Ellis had toned themselves down, mentally back in survival mode and unable to spend any time alone together. The lack of privacy had never bothered them before, but now they were willing to take double watches at night just to ease the tension. There wasn't much they could actually _do_ , of course – the others were always an arm's length away, and _some_ body had to keep an eye on the door – but it was getting to the point where they didn't care. It was almost worth the risk to sneak outside and find some secluded corner to learn more about each other.

One night they took shelter in an abandoned barn a little ways off the road. The farmhouse was boarded up to within an inch of its life, but the outbuilding was sturdy and big enough to let them sleep without getting elbowed in the face. It had been a quiet day, but their slowly dwindling supply of ammunition was becoming worrisome and everyone was a little more stressed than usual. Ellis took first watch, which meant that Nick did, too; and as soon as Coach was snoring up a storm they tiptoed outside. After a brief safety inspection of the area they tried the door of a shed that stood between the barn and the house – locked.

“I never did teach you how to use these,” the gambler commented, kneeling by the entrance as he fished a few slim bits of metal from his jacket. “You want to get us in, or should I do it?”

Ellis bit his lip, torn between interest and fierce impatience, but never got to choose. His partner, looking at him expectantly, glanced over his shoulder and abruptly sprang from his crouched position like a blue-and-white cat. The mechanic went down with a surprised _oof_ as all the air was forced from his lungs, and was halfway through wondering what had gotten Nick so horny all of a sudden when a rank gust of wind passed inches over his head. An inhuman snarl accompanied the breeze, and before Ellis could quite process it his teammate leaped off his chest to fire three rounds from a gun the younger man hadn't even seen him draw.

“ _Tits_ ,” the northerner gave a snarl of his own, and glared into the high corn that covered the hunter’s escape. “Since when do those bastards run away?”

“I... uh...” Ellis blinked at the star-scattered sky for a moment, then sat bolt upright as the adrenaline hit. “ _Ho_ -lee _shit_ , was that...?”

Nick peered into the darkness for a little longer, then de-cocked his Magnum with a sigh. “Looks like the big man's still got his marbles after all,” he muttered, offering the southerner a hand up. “We'd better get back inside. They definitely heard that.”

“Thanks,” Ellis replied shakily, accepting the help; but once he found his feet, he didn't let go. “Seriously. I didn't even... Fucker woulda killed me.”

The conman let the hint of a smile touch the corner of his mouth, and squeezed the muscular arm he clasped a bit tighter, but did not otherwise reply. Instead he tugged them back towards the barn, writing himself a rain check for what he'd intended to do in the shed.

“What the hell happened?” Rochelle cried, emerging from the big double doors with her weapon primed. Coach stood by her, looking just as alarmed and also a little angry.

“We've definitely got a hunter,” Nick answered briskly. “It must be getting as tired of following us as we are of being followed.”

“You didn't hit it?” the older Georgian asked darkly, glowering at the tall grass and untended crops around them.

“Goddamn thing's a lot smarter than anything else we've run into,” the gambler sighed, frustrated. “When it missed, it ran away. I'll bet it won't be back tonight, but it must be getting hungry.”

“Then let's starve it to death,” Rochelle said wryly, “and not go wandering off. Inside, gentlemen.” She gestured with her rifle, and the survivors retreated to camp. Ellis, still shaken by his escape, barred the door up behind them.

The rest of the night was peaceful – no thanks to Nick, who expressed his relief in a way that made it very hard for his partner to keep quiet.

* * *

 

In the morning they headed out early, with no breakfast other than half a bottle of water each. Most of the scattered structures they encountered were barren and useless, but around lunchtime they came upon a house that was an apocalypse survivor's dream – apparently the owner had been prepared for any type of Armageddon _except_ for an airborne disease. Rochelle decapitated the poor bastard while Ellis went out of his mind with joy – the den, the office, the kitchen, and every other room in the sprawling single-story home was stuffed to the gills with every kind of firearm imaginable, not to mention about three tons of nonperishable goods in the ultra-reinforced basement.

“Ho-lee shit, it's Christmas!” the mechanic whooped, dancing around a rack of guns as though he couldn't choose what to touch first. The others were slightly more reserved in their appreciation for the windfall, and after gorging themselves on canned ravioli and spinach, the four of them spent a good long while choosing their loadouts for the next leg of their journey.

“Thank god for rednecks,” Nick breathed reverently as he opened a box full of plastic explosives. “How the hell did he _get_ all this?”

“Son, I don't really give a shit,” Coach replied with a huge grin on his face and a huge gun in his hands. “Check it out, my cousin had one a' these once. Marines. M27, I think it's called.”

“Guys, guys! Lookie here what I found!” Ellis dashed in from another room in a lather of excitement. He had two shotguns and an AK slung across his back, and in his arms he cradled a bulky device that looked like a Tommy gun on steroids. “It's a _grenade launcher!_ I saw it on the military channel once, you can fire _six_ 'fore ya gotta reload, an' check this out, it's got a sight an' ya aim like this-”

“Ellis. Ellis!” Nick caught his attention and pushed the barrel down with an amused smirk. “You really think you can hang on to this when we're running from a tank?”

The southerner's face fell slightly. “Aww, yer no fun...” he whined, and went to put his new toy away. The gambler chuckled quietly to himself as he stuffed C4 and detonators into his bag, still flummoxed by the firepower this one man had somehow accumulated.

“Boys? I'm in love.”

The two older men looked up at Rochelle's declaration. She held a matte-black, oddly shaped rifle in her hands, with a squared-off butt and curvy trigger guard.

“Wuzzat?” asked Ellis, poking his head back around the doorway.

“FN P90,” the journalist murmured. “They use these in a TV show I used to watch... I didn't know they were real.”

Nick raised an eyebrow. “Sweetheart, it's a miracle you can tell which end goes _bang_ ,” he drawled with good-natured condescension, and stood to take another one from its rack. “These are fantastic. Nine hundred rounds per minute, accurate past two hundred meters, light as a feather. Don't ask me how I know all that... But you should definitely trade in your M16.”

“Oh _hell_ yes,” Rochelle gloated, running her fingers down her new gun's casing.

By the time they were done ransacking the place, they looked like they actually had a chance in hell of getting out of the plague zone alive. It had taken quite a bit of effort to convince Ellis that carrying five heavy rifles wasn't practical, but he'd managed to strap a P90 and a couple of small Uzis to his backpack anyway. That was on top of the M27 in his hands and the FUBAR that still hung off his hip. Coach also carried an M27, and had four pipe bombs clipped to his belt; Rochelle lovingly cradled a P90 and took charge of most of the first aid; and Nick, with a fond farewell to his old sniper rifle, upgraded to a Savage 10FP with all the extras. He held on to his Desert Eagles, one holstered on each thigh, and his bag was crammed full of C4. They distributed water, ammo, and MREs between them, filling every available pocket with something useful before leaving the armory behind.

Later that afternoon they advanced into a more heavily settled area, which meant they could see more than one building from the same place on the road. All their new gear was heavy, but the survivors were in high spirits as they toiled under the hot sun. Ellis and Rochelle fell into a cheerful pattern, sparring verbally with Nick while he struggled to maintain a grouchy façade. Coach got a word in edgewise here and there, but for the most part was content to listen and keep an eye on the sparse pine groves to either side. They hadn't traveled far when something tickled the back of his mind, a threatening echo that brought him to full alert. He fell back a bit, straining to block out the chatter of the others – there it was again, a growl, louder this time.

He checked that his rifle was set for fully-automatic fire and scanned the woods again, sharp brown eyes flicking from shadow to shadow in a piercing, furious search. He walked backwards for a little while, and began to wonder if he'd been making shit up when they approached the treeline and saw something that passed for a neighborhood. A few run-down buildings sat forlornly in the dust on the left side of the street, backed by fields that stretched off towards the horizon, but no stealthy navy-blue figures crept into sight.

“Hey, Coach!” Ellis called, laughter in his voice. “C'mon an' tell these folks, Georgia Tech could knock the piss outta Columbus State any day!”

The older man eased his startled grip on his rifle and turned to join the argument, but no sooner did he open his mouth than the mechanic's eyes went wide in fear. Three things happened at once: Ellis raised his gun; an ear-piercing shriek tore the air; and a searing agony slashed down his leg, making him hit the pavement face-first.

Things went... _red_. He could hear himself yelling, could smell the heat from the mechanic's rifle and the stench of the hunter's blood as it collapsed on top of him; but all he felt was an icy sharpness that somehow dulled his vision. There was movement, and noise, and somebody was upset... Who? Why?

“Shit, aw shit shit shit shit shit... c'mon, big guy, let's get you up,” Nick urged as he carefully hauled Coach to his feet. “Can you stand?” he asked fiercely, hearing a terribly familiar roar echo between corrugated steel warehouses.

“Cover us, Ro, we're gonna get him inside!” barked Ellis when their injured man staggered. He ducked under the arm Nick wasn't already supporting and gave him a hard nod, which was returned with equal emphasis and followed by a harsh countdown.

“Three, two, one-!”

In unison they heaved, dragging Coach along between them with his right leg trailing uselessly behind. Rochelle slew the vanguard of the horde that came into view down the street, then sprinted ahead of the men to clear the house they were aiming for. She knew she was too small to batter the door open, so she shot the wood out from around the lock instead and made sure the way was clear before spinning around to lay down cover fire.

“Take him, I'll get the door!” Ellis yelled to Nick as they laid their burden down inside, and tossed over a first aid kit from his pocket. The conman deftly snatched it from the air and began to stem the flow of blood.

Ellis covered Rochelle while she reloaded, but as soon as her P90 was roaring again he lit one of his Molotovs and pitched it down the street. It was a good throw – fire burst into life in the middle of a wide-open intersection, consuming the tide of infected coming from that direction. As the hideous death shrieks and stench of char reached them they picked off the rest, creating a gory pile of corpses just outside the treeline.

“Sweet Lincoln's mullet, where the hell are they coming from?” Rochelle growled, jamming home a new magazine. Ellis fired at a jockey a hundred yards away, and grinned like a maniac when it went down like a sack of potatoes.

“We gotta be close to a town or somethin’,” he answered, returning his attention to the dying flames. “This ain't so bad, though. Look, I think we got 'em.”

As the Molotov burned itself out it left a blackened expanse dotted with corpses. They efficiently gunned down the last handful of zombies and gave the area a final sweep, then retreated to join the older men inside.

Nick didn't glance up from his work. “Smells like dinner,” he commented dryly, cutting the shredded cargo pants off Coach's leg. He knelt in the midst of a haphazard trauma center, with his hands covered in blood and a first-aid kit open at his feet. It was a tiny miracle that his patient was too far into shock to thrash around – the gambler had a lot of sewing to do.

“How’s he doing?” Rochelle asked, setting her gun aside to help while Ellis barricaded the door.

“Not great,” Nick answered quietly, pulling some thread through the eye of a needle. “But he's gotta be the luckiest sonofabitch this side of Caesars. Fucker missed his hamstring by a red one.”

“Yeesh,” the journalist winced, mopping up around where they’d begin the first line of stitches. The gash started halfway down Coach's thigh, skipped where his knee had been bent, and continued along his calf to the top of his boot. She took up a needle of her own and started sewing her way across to meet Nick in the middle, firmly quelling her churning stomach every time she pierced her friend's dark, blood-slick skin.

“Well, screw me if that scratch ain't uglier'n homemade sin,” Ellis commented seriously, pushing aside a stained pile of bandages. He set to work on his countryman's hands and face, wiping away the dirt and protecting the scrapes with band-aids and antibiotic. “I think he's passed out... His nose ain't broken, at least.”

“Small blessings,” Rochelle sighed as she fought to stop the bleeding. “But now what? He won't be able to walk for days.”

“We'll cross that bridge when we get to it,” Nick replied flatly, checking the stitches he'd made. “Right now we have to get him stable, and make sure this doesn't get infected.”

Ellis, done with his job, slowly got to his feet. “Looks like y'all've got this. I'm gonna see where in the hell we ended up this time.”

“Be careful, sweetie!” the journalist called after him as he picked up his P90 and began a sweep of the house.

The building was small, sparsely furnished, and mercifully empty. Ellis returned dragging a mattress, which they put Coach on once his leg was fully bandaged. After that, all they could do was clean their guns and wait for their oldest teammate to wake up. Once the bleeding stopped his injury didn’t seem life-threatening, but he was definitely out for the count.

“This _sucks_!” Ellis proclaimed after his fifth patrol of the house. Rochelle, trying to take a nap on the floor, sighed without opening her eyes.

“That hunter's dead, why don't you go play outside?” she told him sarcastically, rearranging her arms to be more comfortable. “Give a girl five minutes of peace...”

Ellis blinked at the suggestion, then glanced over to where Nick was examining his new rifle. He'd been listening, apparently; their eyes met, and with a lecherous smirk the conman rose to unblock the door.

“We'll be back eventually,” he called over his shoulder as they left. Rochelle did not reply.


	18. Chapter 18

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Heeeyyy this is the PWP chapter. Feel free to skip it to continue with the plot.

Pleasantly heady tension fizzed in the air as they made a quick circuit of the area. Only a few infected had wandered back since the battle, and the two men made short work of them before the hunt for a safe spot began. A few shipping containers sat in the dust behind the building, but their huge locking mechanisms were rusted shut. Nick was just about to suggest they try the warehouse across the street when his companion gave an enthusiastic exclamation.

“ _Hell_ yes!” he gloated, waving the hitman over with a wickedly hungry grin. Around the corner sat a lot full of old cars – some were in pieces, and some were rusted out, but a few looked like they might be in working order. Ellis made a beeline for a boxy station wagon that glowed a deep red in the light of the setting sun, the tense lines of his muscles betraying several different kinds of want as he circled it.

Nick chuckled as he approached, noting the mischievous gleam in the young man’s eyes. “Really, sport? The backseat? What are you, sixteen?”

The mechanic was too excited to hear the jibe. “Oh man, oh man, this is perfect,” he gushed, eagerness dampened only slightly by the vehicle’s locked door. He immediately cast his gaze around, sparkling blue eyes searching for and finding the car’s thoroughly decayed owner sprawled a few meters away. Using the tip of his rifle, he nudged open the cadaver’s outstretched hand and recovered a silvery keyring. He wiped the keys off with the hem of his coveralls – whether this actually made them any cleaner was questionable – and very nearly giggled as he approached the driver’s side door.

A quick double-twist to the right opened all five locks with a dull _th-chunk_ and turned on the interior light. Nick pulled open the rear hatch, noting with a satisfied smirk that the back row of seats was already folded flat. Intended to accommodate a huge load of extra cargo, the space was about the size of a mattress and a bit less than three feet high. The gambler leaned forward, pushing aside a jug of wiper fluid and a roadside repair kit to crawl right up into the car.

Ellis was poking around the dash, but he quickly looked up when he felt the pull of Nick’s hand on his collar. The conman was on his hands and knees, drawing him in between the front seats and smiling a terrifying little smile that nevertheless set the mechanic aflutter with giddiness. Discarding the keys on the tan leather, the southerner clambered awkwardly over the e-brake to join his partner in the back.

“Finally,” Nick breathed, pulling their faces close together. “You know what the worst part of this apocalypse is?” he asked, expression devilish and teasing.

Ellis’ brain had gone all fuzzy already, intoxicated by his lover’s proximity, and he couldn’t manage to say anything but a rather hoarse “What?”

The conman’s eye got a wicked gleam, and he leaned forward until the stubble on their cheeks ground together pleasantly. “That you didn't get hit on the head sooner,” he whispered impishly, and slowly ran his tongue along the delicate curve of the Georgian’s ear. “All that time wasted... Such a shame…” he murmured, interspersing risqué nonsense with little nips and kisses, only half paying attention to what he was saying.

Ellis’ eyes rolled up involuntarily when he felt the hot swipe of Nick’s tongue. That accented voice hit him like a physical sensation, rough and low and making him shiver uncontrollably. The words didn’t matter, and he couldn’t understand them anyway because that talented mouth had ruined any chance he had at being sensible. Instead he made a humming noise that was both appreciative and pleading, and slid forward until he could put his weight on his knees and get his hands inside the gambler’s jacket.

The new shirt was already filthy, but its buttons hadn’t yet lost their shine. They reflected the last rays of sunlight as Ellis fumbled them out of their holes, little bright sparks that winked out of existence when the garments crumpled to the floor. Nick smiled and licked his lips as he helped his partner disrobe as well, happily astonished yet again by the perfectly sculpted torso before him – he hoped he never took it for granted. When the hat and yellow t-shirt were out of the way he pulled the southerner close, hands roving everywhere as though trying to touch every inch of him at once.

Ellis turned slightly, preempting a passionate kiss by resting his head on Nick’s left shoulder. From there he tipped up his chin to bite aggressively at his lover’s neck, eliciting a sharp gasp and drawing blood to the surface to bruise the pale skin. The mechanic found a nerve and attacked it mercilessly, feeling a strange kind of vengeful satisfaction as his victim groaned and trembled against him.

Ice and fire tingled in Nick’s spine, a delicious reaction to the kid’s sudden assertiveness. He threw back his head and fought to breathe through the waves of harsh sensation, fingers clutching uselessly until he managed to get a grip on one heavily muscled shoulder. With a huge burst of effort he regained control, roughly pushing Ellis onto his back – but his victory was short-lived, because the younger man grinned like a shark and heaved them into a half-roll that put him on top. The conman’s emerald eyes went wide, and an apprehensive thrill in his gut made him shudder, but he recovered quickly enough to flip them again and trap the Georgian against the side of the car.

Nick dove to capture his partner’s mouth before he could escape, kissing hard, their tongues fighting aggressively before Ellis’ strength won out. He pushed himself up to his knees and grappled the older man, but the northerner was ready this time. He braced himself against the wheel well and caught his partner in the middle of the small space, grinning hungrily with testosterone raging through his veins. Unknowable amounts of tension burned away as his muscles rejoiced in the struggle, this primal battle spiked with anticipation of what was to come. This wasn’t like fighting the infected; this was pure, honest, cathartic. This was _fun_.

“Damn, Nick,” Ellis growled, licking his lips as they strained against one another. “The look on yer face… I dunno whether I wanna take advantage of ya, or have _you_ take advantage of _me_...”

His opponent chuckled darkly. “Then I guess I’ll decide,” he purred, and shoved hard enough to give himself some breathing room. The southerner only recoiled for a second before lunging forward again; but instead of meeting the attack head-on, Nick shifted like a snake and slipped a hand right down the mechanic’s pants.

Ellis was taken by complete surprise, and collapsed with a gasp mid-charge as ringed fingers curled possessively around his already stiffening dick. He fell forward onto his hands and knees, and as promised, the conman took advantage of his paralysis to gently get him on his back again.

“Now _stay_ ,” Nick whispered against his partner’s lips, caressing the soft skin under his fingers with mocking restraint. Ellis closed his eyes and sighed like he was sinking into a hot bath, shifting longingly but making no move to resume their roughhousing.

“Oohhhhhh _yeeahhhhh_ …”

The waver in his voice drove the gambler up the wall. He untied Ellis’ boots so the mechanic could kick them off, then pulled the coveralls’ sleeves apart. The garment slid away and took the boxers underneath with it, giving Nick a spectacular view of his lover’s body even in the gathering shadows. He swallowed, recognizing a twinge of apprehension in the back of his mind; but by now he’d nearly mastered his discomfort, and it withered away completely before those gorgeous, pleading blue eyes.

Nick hurriedly tore off his own shoes and jeans, feeling both impatient and just the tiniest bit sadistic. He could practically _taste_ how eager Ellis was; but instead of giving in to his own urgent desires, the conman smiled cruelly and set about driving his partner insane.

First he retrieved the lube and a condom from the discarded coveralls and knelt between the mechanic’s legs. Putting the supplies aside, he pulled himself forward until the two of them were face-to-face. As Nick leaned in to taste Ellis’ mouth again he dipped, lowering his hips to _roll_ against him at the same time.

The sensation was entirely new, a little strange, and incredibly delicious. Ellis gasped into their kiss and released the breath as a deep moan, bucking upwards to encourage the motion. Silky skin tingled as they ground against each other, but before it could get too serious, Nick stopped. He held himself just high enough that Ellis couldn't reach, but low enough that he tried anyway. The southerner whined quietly and attempted to pull his partner closer; the conman slipped out of his hands and pinned down his arms.

“Why... the hell... are ya bein' such... a goddamn tease?” Ellis panted as Nick ran his tongue across his chest, following a pale scar across his pecs to one dusky nipple. The hitman chuckled quietly, gently closing his teeth over it and loving the reaction he got: Ellis yelped and tried to escape, but only ended up pushing himself farther into his captor's grasp.

“Is there a problem?” Nick asked slyly, and brought their hips together again.

“Why don't’cha just get on wit- awh, _shiiiiit_...”

“Patience is a virtue, sport,” the gambler taunted, testing the limits of his own with the leisurely movement of their bodies. “We were in such a rush last time...” _...And tonight I want to hear you beg_ , he growled in his mind. The mere thought was nearly enough to shatter his resolve; images of that perfect mouth pleading, chiseled body writhing, utterly at his mercy...

Something must have shown in his eyes, because Ellis got that look of ravenous panic that was somehow the sexiest thing Nick had ever seen. He gave his partner one last surge, grinding their stiffened erections together, coaxing a hazy moan from those swollen lips; and before the sparks had faded from his vision, he shifted back onto his knees. He let his hands slide from Ellis' wrists to the tense muscles just above his narrow hips, forcing them down, and bent forward to hold his mouth just over the reddened skin of his dick.

“ _Nnnnhh_ , c'mon, that ain't fair...” Ellis whined, twitching as his partner's hot breath ghosted over the sensitive area. He tried and failed to buck upwards, causing Nick to chuckle lustfully and run the very tip of his tongue _sloowwwlly_ up his shaft from base to head. The mechanic’s hands spasmed, latching on to the seat belt dangling beside him before tangling desperately in his tormentor's hair. Nick resisted the downwards pressure, continuing to savor the taste of his young lover's skin as he lazily drew damp paths across it.

He gently licked, nibbled, and sucked his way over every inch of Ellis' eager cock, relishing the fevered moans and choked breaths he got in response, but it didn't take very long for the southerner to start pleading. Though Nick had enough self-control to keep this up for quite a while, he was not at all displeased by Ellis' lack of it.

“Awh, _Niiick_ , Why don't’chuu _ooohh_... Mmm, just give it t'me... _Hah_...!”

“Mmm, why should I? I'm enjoying myself.”

“Hnnngh, _Je_ sus-! 'Cuz I wanchaaa- _AH_!” He thrashed a bit as Nick wrapped his mouth around the smooth tip of his dick and suckled softly for a moment.

“Hmm? Didn't quite catch that...”

“Aw, _shit_ , just _fuck me already_!”

“Not unless you ask nicely.” The conman grinned evilly as his partner squirmed, face and ears bright red with want and embarrassment.

“Yer an asshole...” Ellis whined, tugging ineffectually at Nick's hair and wrists. “Awright, _please_?”

“Please what?” the northerner goaded, amazed that he could play this game when he was so goddamn horny; but the shade of his companion's blush shifted a bit towards frustration, signaling that it would be genuinely cruel to keep it up much longer.

“Please fuck me, Nick,” Ellis enunciated through clenched teeth. Nick couldn't stop the appreciative groan the words pulled from his chest, and as a reward he finally took the southerner's full length into his mouth.

“Hoooooohhhhh _shhiiiiittt_...!”

He smiled around the hardened flesh, smoothly bobbing his head to draw out more of those noises. Carefully he grabbed the lube and squeezed some out one-handed while keeping the other firmly situated on Ellis' sharp hipbone. With the mechanic thoroughly distracted Nick slicked up his fingers, ever-so-gently brought them close to his lover's tight entrance, then quite suddenly forced two of them inside without regard for a gradual buildup.

“ _SHIT_!” Ellis yelped, bucking hard enough to break free of the gambler's restraints. Nick handled the thrust into his throat with a slight retreat, then leaned his forearm heavily across his partner's abs and resumed his movements with enthusiasm. The new pressure kept the mechanic from thrashing about, but he sputtered and gasped uncontrollably with every long pump of Nick's nimble fingers.

The conman gave a pleased hum as he prepared him, spreading the muscles as wide as they would comfortably go and then a little more, keeping up the stimulation with his tongue all the while. It was getting hard to hold back now, but he wasn't completely done teasing yet.

When he judged that his lover was ready Nick reclaimed his fingers and sat back onto his heels, still hunched a little in the cramped space. As he reached for the condoms he let his eyes devour the sight before him, even better than he’d imagined: perfectly sculpted mouth panting, chest heaving, desire etched into every curve of that strong southern body. Ellis' flustered blue eyes looked up at him, so desperate that they seemed almost angry.

“That'll take too long, forget it,” he said breathlessly, squirming attractively on the floor. Nick smirked, tearing the wrapper open anyway.

“Safety first,” he purred, unfurling the rubber with a deliberate slowness and shivering as he finally touched his own so-far ignored erection. Through slitted eyes he watched Ellis' face, pride swelling at the mechanic’s expression of eager, apprehensive fascination as he applied a generous portion of lube. He took a little longer than was necessary, stroking himself to show off, but soon bent close and lifted his partner's legs over his shoulders. The position raised Ellis' hips, entirely folding him at the waist and prompting him to throw both arms around Nick's neck. Wild blue eyes met fiery green in the faint backseat light.

“Ready?” the conman asked quietly, one last tease to drive his lover mad. Ellis nearly snarled, pulling Nick's head down to bite at his ear.

“If you don't start fuckin' me _right now_ , I swear t' _god_ it's gonna be the other way 'round inside a' thirty seconds.”

The threat sent a massively delicious shudder through the gambler's spine, and he smiled into the crook of the southerner's neck. Rather than answer and risk further delay he guided his lube-slick cock to where it so desperately wanted to be, and raised his head so he could watch Ellis' face as their bodies merged at last.

The mechanic squeezed his eyes tightly shut, inhaling harshly as Nick slowly sank into him. He struggled to relax, fighting the muscles that were fighting their joining, expression an exquisite combination of ecstasy and pain that made it extremely difficult for his lover to restrain himself. The conman ran his hands up and down Ellis' thighs, grimacing against the massive surge of heat that demanded he start moving and start moving _now_. His fingers made needy impressions on the skin underneath them, little dents that followed his grip all along those muscular legs.

Nick only waited until his partner's breathing calmed a little before giving in to instinct. He pulled his hips back, slowly, dragging against the impossibly tight walls that surrounded him; then he slammed forward, grinding deep to get every single inch of himself inside. The impact ripped a primal noise from his throat and made Ellis scream. It sounded like pain... But the word he cried was “ _YES_!”

Once more a wild shiver rippled through Nick's body, lightning coursing through his blood with the sound of his lover's voice. He rolled his hips again, all hot friction and throbbing ache, gradually working up to a rhythm that hardly gave them time to breathe between violent, explosive thrusts.

It was different like this, being able to see his face. Ellis shuddered and shook, clawing madly and moaning with the kind of edge that made Nick want to ride him even harder. The gambler focused intensely on his expression, pinched around his eyes but flushed and joyous underneath; he was gorgeous with his shaggy hair all over the place, beautiful with a fine sheen of sweat slicking his forehead. His cries grew less agonized, dropped a few octaves and pulsed in time with Nick's movements, enhancing the already overwhelming sensation the conman felt – that of completion, of union, of claiming what was rightfully his.

He leaned down to steal those cries, matching their lips together and forcing a slightly different angle between their hips. Ellis groaned into his mouth, a needy signal that prompted Nick to redouble his efforts. He set himself just so and gave him everything he had, muscles stinging, a sizzling buzz building and growing under his skin. The northerner felt his insides melting, burning, dissolving into a stupidly wonderful passion with every twitch – pulling back, his lover's flesh didn't want to let him go; ramming in, it welcomed him with wet heat and clenching tightness every time he hit _that spot_.

Nick danced on the edge with his head full of light, trembling, a pile of fuel-soaked tinder ready for the spark. With sudden inspiration he broke the kiss, and dragged his lips across the rough stubble on Ellis' jaw to his ear.

“Is this what you wanted, Overalls?” he growled fiercely with a particularly hard thrust, then moved to the delirious mechanic’s neck and _bit_.

There were no words. Ellis' whole body _undulated_ , going violently tense as he threw back his head and came so hard that for a moment he actually stopped breathing.

The mechanic’s climax was the trigger Nick had been waiting for. He couldn't handle the sudden pressure around his cock, the blinding heat of Ellis' body, or the expression of utter ecstasy on his face. With a final spectacular push the gambler lost it like a thermite fire, going up in flames and roaring sparks that set the rest of the world alight. In the heart of the blaze he gripped his lover tight, perfectly happy to die this way as they disintegrated to ashes, leaving behind smoldering coals that glowed redly until the night rolled in to claim them both.

Nick's arms went limp, letting Ellis' legs slide gently to the floor. The men shifted slightly until the gambler could roll sideways, landing on his back beside his partner. He took off the condom and threw it out the open hatch as Ellis stretched, muscular body going taut before collapsing into an utterly gratified sprawl.

They lay there for a while as the haze faded away, reeking of sweat and sex, breaths evening out as their heartbeats returned to normal. There was no sound from outside, no hint of danger, and as Nick stared up at the roof of the car he actually caught himself relaxing. He smirked, just a tired twitch at the corner of his mouth, and didn't chuckle so much as he hurried the air along on its trip out of his lungs.

Ellis wiped off his stomach and let himself drift on the tingling ache that suffused him, watching the stars slowly fade from his vision. When he could see without a flickering overlay of white and gold and blue he lazily glanced to the side, letting his eyes devour the lean form of Nick's body. The northerner's breathing was quiet, and gently lifted his chest with a soothing rhythm. Ellis allowed himself the pleasure of watching, discovering that his thirst for the man had not yet been slaked – a distinct want tugged at him as his gaze traveled from muscle to muscle, scar to scar, head to toe.

The mechanic subtly licked his lips, psyching himself up to turn the tables. He wasn't sure how Nick would react to the proposition, but ho-lee _shit_ did the gambler look good. Real good. Goddamn _delicious_.

 _What the hell,_ Ellis thought, feeling the blood begin to swell in his cock again. _Worth a shot, ain't it?_

Having made the decision, the southerner wasted no more time in getting his lover's attention. “Hmmmmyeah...” he sighed contentedly, offering a lopsided smile. “Yeah, I reckon that's what I wanted.”

“Good,” Nick replied with a smirk, and lazily reached for his jeans. When a heavily calloused hand stopped him, though, he looked up in surprise. “Uh, excuse me?”

“Want _ed_ ,” the mechanic repeated, with emphasis on the suffix. “I think I want somethin' more now.”

Both of the northerner's eyebrows shot upwards, but he was not displeased. “So soon, ace?”

Ellis regarded him with a mischievous twinkle in his sapphire eyes. “Ya won't hafta do the work this time,” he said slyly, and slid closer to lean hungrily over his partner.

Dopamine-dazed and complacent as he was, it took Nick a couple of seconds to realize what the younger man was suggesting. By the time the idea hit him, Ellis had situated himself between his legs and was preparing to nip at his bruised neck once again.

“Hey, woah woah woah, back up a second,” Nick demanded, raising a hand in startled defense. “Are you saying what I think you're saying?”

“If ya think I'm sayin' that I wanna take ya, then hell yeah I am,” the mechanic replied, savoring the words and making his accent heavy with desire.

“ _No_ ,” the northerner said firmly, heart racing – but not altogether uncomfortably, which was disconcerting – at the mere prospect. Ellis' face fell.

“Aw, but-”

“We went over this, remember?” Nick said more gently, twisting to encourage his partner to get off of him. It was difficult. “Look, sport, I said no. That's just... not something I do, okay?”

Ellis didn't move, but the lines of his body lost some of their aggressive tension. “It'll be good, I promise,” he pleaded, shifting his weight onto one arm to let his fingers play across Nick's chest. “I didn't think it was somethin' I did either, 'fore you came along.”

“That's great, kiddo, I'm flattered, but ' _I ain't ready_ ' to switch it up and never will be,” the older man asserted, mimicking a Georgian accent without actually mocking it. He glanced down, to the heated place where their hips met, and licked his lips nervously. “I could do something else for you, if you want...”

A rare glint of suppressed anger glowed hotly in Ellis' eyes, and though it disappeared immediately, Nick felt his body respond to it hungrily. “Ya been doin' that plenty the last few days,” the mechanic coaxed hoarsely, leaning in to nibble at his partner's ear. “I gotta have ya, Nick... 'Cuz as much fun as it is, I ain't just gonna lie down an' take it all the time. I ain't yer girl.”

“That's... that's not...” the conman stammered trying to come up with an answer, but having Ellis on top of him acting all assertive was pushing buttons he'd never known he had. The younger man's harsh stubble struck sparks against the sensitive skin of his neck, and that demanding voice made all his hair stand on end with anticipation. He groaned. “Ellis, please-”

“Please what, Nick?” his lover responded, teasing at a nerve with his tongue. The sassy lilt to the words had the same effect on the gambler's brain that a ten-thousand-degree oven has on a cup of Jello.

“Oh, _fuck_...” he gasped, and latched on to the southerner's waist like it was the last thing holding him on this earth. Only the final desperate dregs of his terrified pride kept him from adding “me” to the end of his statement. “Listen, I... I'll fight you for it.”

That was unexpected. Ellis drew back in confusion, tilting his head a little to the left like a bewildered puppy. “Say what?”

“I said I'll fight you,” Nick breathlessly repeated, digging his fingers harder into the toned flesh underneath them. “If you can pin me down like I did to you before, then... then you can have me.”

The mechanic neither accepted nor rejected the terms. He merely blinked a couple of times, then very deliberately transferred each of his partner's hands from his waist to the floor. One at a time he rooted them there, then arrogantly cocked an eyebrow.

“Gotcha.”

Before Nick had the chance to argue his mouth was fully occupied. Ellis kissed him hard and held his wrists down firmly, maneuvering them up to a spot where he could control them both with one hand. The conman struggled half-heartedly, absolutely terrified by the mechanic's aggressiveness but turned on like crazy at the same time – which was terrifying in and of itself.

He surged and twisted against his bonds, but the real battle was in his mind as he tried to figure out if he actually wanted to go through with this. Ellis kept him still with barely any effort, using his superior muscle to maximum effect without needing to try very hard. He freed up a hand to fumble for the lube, and when he found it he broke off their kiss with one last possessive nip.

“Seriously now...” he panted, fighting the thick fog of testosterone clouding his judgment. “You okay with this?”

Nick felt a pathetic surge of appreciation, relieved that the younger man had paused to ask permission. In this position it would have been easy for Ellis to just do it, hold him down and have his way without the slightest concern – and that mental image made the gambler's abdomen suddenly clench with lust. After desperately chasing power for so long, after finally coming to terms with his place in this post-apocalyptic world, the idea caught at his throat and made it hard to breathe.

Being _powerless_...

“No,” he growled, “but I want you to take me anyway.”

Ellis caught the look in his eye and rejoiced inside. He could play that game – and damn well, too, according to a couple of his exes – but this time he wouldn't have to hold back out of concern for his girlfriend's safety. He wouldn't have to keep half his mind in reserve to control his aggression. Nick had survived being beaten by hordes, chargers, and worse – if he wanted it rough, that's exactly what he'd get.

“Then hold on tight, darlin',” Ellis purred, baring his teeth in a half-smile, half-snarl.

It was a small miracle that he remembered to prepare Nick at all, and an even bigger one that Nick didn't change his mind on the spot. The mechanic's strong fingers hurt, even covered in lube, and he wasn't exactly trying to be gentle. The gambler fought tenaciously – not for his freedom, exactly, but just because he needed to fight. He held back at first, to keep it going, but soon discovered that the stronger man could easily subdue even his wildest thrashing. He both loved and hated it – wanting and yet not wanting to escape the bizarre pain invading his body – but being physically unable to resist weirdly helped him to accept Ellis' rough movement within.

Keeping a one-handed hold on Nick's wrists was a challenge, one the southerner gladly accepted. He kept most of his focus on that struggle, trying to ignore the gross fact of what his other hand was doing. Having been on the receiving end of this already Ellis fully appreciated that preparation was necessary, but really really _really_ wished it wasn't. Nevertheless, his mild disgust was nowhere near enough to dampen his enthusiasm.

He grinned like a feral creature as his prisoner twisted uselessly beneath him. Nick stifled strained noises through clenched teeth, sounds that skated the edge between genuinely concerning and unbearably sexy. The Georgian flexed and stretched his fingers, rushing the process without regard for comfort, and brushed but didn't quite impact the gambler's sweet spot before pulling out.

It was a trick and a half to get the condom on with only one hand, but he somehow managed to tear the wrapper open with his teeth. He nearly lost control as he rolled the latex down his throbbing dick, quivering at even that small stimulation and almost letting go of the conman's wrists; but as soon as he'd finished protecting himself, he roughly changed their position. With a merciless yank the mechanic flipped his partner onto his knees, pinning his face into the floor and forcing his hands behind his back as though cuffed.

“Yer all mine now,” Ellis gloated, putting on a bit of a tough-guy act to hide how absurdly excited he was.

Nick squirmed desperately in his captor's grip, but couldn't do a damn thing. The rough felt-covered bed of the car scratched and burned against his skin, yet another source of pain that he couldn't bring himself to resent at this time because Ellis was leaning in, and he could feel the slick wetness of lubricant sliding between his cheeks, and the firm touch of his lover's rigid cock quickly became a stretching pressure as it forced its way inside and – _oohhhh_ _god what was I thinking...?!_

“ _Aaaawwwhhhh_ yeah...” Ellis sighed and snarled at the same time, almost overwhelmed by the impossible heat circling the tip of his dick. Nick was tight, so tight that he couldn't get very far at first; even at his most insistent, it took the mechanic several strong thrusts before he finally plunged forward and sank balls-deep into the gambler's tense body.

“A- ahh... _haahhh_ Jesus _FUCK_!” Nick shouted and bucked even harder as Ellis began to move, not allowing any time for him to recover. That first vicious rut felt like it was tearing him apart, but the agony was a mere pinprick compared to the nuclear blast of mind-numbing pleasure that annihilated it all. His throat closed up and he choked on his screams, consumed by the younger man's relentless onslaught and unable to decide whether or not he liked it because his brain was somewhere past the stratosphere by now.

Ellis couldn’t believe how absolutely mind-blowingly _fantastic_ he felt at that moment. As incredible as being on the bottom had been, it was still a little awkward and uncomfortable; now there was none of that, only the triple rush of sex and violence and a namelessly painful joy squeezing tight around his heart. _Mine_ , his body sang, the sensation infinitely more profound than his superficially teasing words. _All mine_...

It was an entirely new experience from here, from the position of being in charge. The firm _smack_ of skin, the tight heat of flesh surrounding him, the hard muscle beneath his hands – even the heavy scent of their mingled sweat turned him on, a salty musk the mechanic could practically taste in the air. Deep in his stinging muscles a tingling began, pinpricks of starlight that gathered around his bones and tickled his lungs even though every breath he drew was fire.

“Yeah, Nick, you feel real good,” he growled, dragging the fingers of his free hand down the conman’s flank to grab his ass. The action gave him a perfect view of his own dick sliding in and out of Nick’s body, a sight that gave him hot shivers. He couldn’t watch for long, though, or he’d lose it too soon; instead he adjusted the angle of his hips and leaned forward, moving Nick’s hands to pin them to the floor and slowing his demanding pace to a more leisurely roll. The new position let the head of his cock drag slowly and consistently over his lover’s prostate.

“S- shit, Ellis, right there…” Nick panted, suddenly desperate for that rough treatment again. “Nngh… harder…”

“Hold yer horses, darlin’, I’m havin’ fun,” Ellis replied, maintaining his rhythm and gently mouthing at the conman’s shoulder and neck. “Can’t handle a little payback, huh?”

Nick groaned with both annoyance and desire, and tried to arch into the movement. It was no use; he was completely under Ellis’ control, and the sensation sent a shiver down his spine. He thoroughly understood the kid’s earlier impatience now. “Come on, you’re d- driving me crazy,” he pleaded, voice cracking under the strain. Ellis taunted him by thrusting harshly just once, making him cry out and utterly destroying his pride.

“ _Aah!_ Fuck, Ellis, _please_ …”

The younger man laughed, and echoed the conman’s own teasing words. “Well shit, since ya asked so nicely,” he purred, and finally let loose.

It took all Nick had not to scream. His hands clutched feebly at the carpet, body shaking uncontrollably with the impact of their hips and moaning at the slick friction that stroked him from inside. Ellis fucked like a force of nature: implacable, unstoppable, wild as a storm at sea, and Nick was drowning in him. Every thrust filled him with hot crimson light, a tangible surge that burst from his prostate and rushed up to his head like so much liquid flame. Ellis claimed every inch of him and it wasn't long before climax began to grow, a raging smolder that shouldn't have been possible this soon, a brilliant plasma pulse that seized him in a flash and vaporized his mind with an explosion that rocked him to his very core.

“Oh, god, _Ellis,_ I-!”

Nick's seed splattered wide on the floor and his body clenched down with ecstasy, but the orgasmic tension of his muscles was stopped short by Ellis' girth still plunging deep inside. The mechanic gasped at the suddenly overwhelming pressure, a thick friction that sent stars shooting behind his eyes and drove him to frenzy – back and forth, faster and faster, until at last he crested his peak and flooded warmth into his lover's yielding breech. Something more went with it as he fell into the light: a part of himself, his essence, the final link of a bond come full circle.

Ellis roared in defiance of the universe, their union proving beyond the shadow of a doubt that Nick belonged to him and _only_ him – and not even the end of the world could take that away.


	19. Chapter 19

_Grey-green shifting shadows, black road beneath her feet. The gate called her, silhouettes of her family glowing dark against shimmering blue. She kept walking._

_“Hurry up, little lady,” her mother beckoned from afar._

_“We're going home, sunshine,” Jake murmured in her ear. “Just a little farther...”_

_Joey and Sam ran down the steps to grab Ellis by the hand. They tugged him along, laughing, and he in turn pulled a quietly smiling Nick up to the gate and then through. All four of them vanished into the other side, followed immediately by Janet and Rick and Dad..._

_“Wait!” she cried out as one by one the people she loved left this hellish place behind. “Wait for me!”_

_“We ain't got time for that,” Coach said softly, disappearing into another world. “Goodbye, baby girl... I'm gonna miss you...”_

_“No, wait, please!” She felt claws tearing at her legs, binding her in place, the darkness itself conspiring to hold her back. The gate began to close, slowly, taunting as she strove to break free, desperately trying to dive through the last faint glimmer of light..._

“...so we let’cha sleep, but it's mornin' an' ya gotta see this! C'mon, Ro, wake up!”

The tangy reek of blood hit her first. As her body came online her struggles translated from mental to physical, and she jerked awake so violently that Ellis fell backwards in surprise.

“Woah, hey, take it easy,” he laughed, raising a hand to make sure his hat was still in place. She squinted at him, nightmare dregs still clinging to the edges of her consciousness, and tried to figure out where she was.

“Ellis...? What's going on?”

“Oh, man, ya gotta see for yerself!” He sprang to his feet with a small wince and a big grin, offering her a hand off the floor. She accepted.

Nick crouched nearby, bending over a rather pathetic-looking Coach and checking his bandages for signs of infection. The conman glanced up at her with a smile – an actual, immensely contented smile – before reaching for an alcohol wipe from his first-aid kit.

“Morning, doll. Sleep well?” he inquired cheerfully, cleaning some stitches. Rochelle tilted her head in confusion.

“Am I still dreaming?” she asked, unable to comprehend the northerner's buoyant attitude. “I could've sworn I just saw you look _happy_.”

“And why shouldn't I be? I had a good night,” Nick fired back, laying down fresh gauze with a bawdy wink at Ellis. He chuckled as his patient shifted uncomfortably. “Go take a look at what Junior found, then tell me you aren't even the tiniest bit optimistic.”

“I'm with Ro on this one, yo' chirpy ass is freakin' me out,” grumbled Coach. He continued bitching to his medic as the journalist followed their youngest teammate outside, around the back and behind a collection of shipping containers that were piled in the dust. A few relatively fresh corpses lay scattered about – evidence of the boys' evening jaunt – but at first Rochelle didn't see anything worth getting excited about. Even when Ellis stopped tugging at her arm and stood still with a proud grin on his face, she just blinked at him.

“What am I looking at?” she asked with a yawn, miffed that it was taking so long to wake up. The southerner stared at her for a moment, then waved emphatically behind him at the small collection of run-down cars parked in the scrubby lot.

“Our new ride, man! I'm callin' her Toby, which is short for October, which is short for the _Red October_ 'cuz she's kinda reddish an'...”

Rochelle's tired brain tuned him out at that point. She instead focused her attention on the vehicle her companion was waxing so rhapsodic about: a boxy, deep maroon Volvo wagon with antique plates. A silly little smile crept onto her face as she began to circle it, noting that it said “240 Turbo” on the rear hatch and was in remarkably good condition for a car that old. There was hardly a scratch on her, and the tan leather interior was nearly spotless – its owner had been killed en route, leaving his putrid corpse sprawled a few feet from the door instead of in the driver's seat.

“I used to have one of these,” she murmured, gently testing the handle. Ellis instantly appeared at her side to point out nifty features on the dashboard, still rambling about how wonderful the car was.

“...near as old as me, but that's great 'cuz she ain't got too many 'lectric parts in her so I can fix her up easy if somethin' goes wrong, an' somebody put a nitro boost in for some crazy-ass reason but I betcha it'll come in real handy, an' with one'a the back seats down Coach can stretch out an' relax...”

A thought crossed Rochelle's mind as she sat down to examine the console. She reached across to the passenger's side glovebox, and dug around between paper napkins and old receipts until she found the owner's manual. It confirmed what she had suspected.

“Uh, Ellis?” she interrupted his intricate description of serpentine belts and carburetors. “You do realize how much gas this thing needs, right?”

He didn't miss a beat. “ _Cargo space_ , Ro. We can carry a whole damn gas station with us if we hafta! 'Sides, if we don't take her we're stuck here 'til Coach can walk again.”

She sighed, flipping idly through a few pages before tucking the little book away. The kid had a definite point.

“All right,” she yawned, and stuck her hand out the open door. “Gimme.”

The mechanic deposited the jangling fob into Rochelle's waiting palm and backed away as she pulled the door shut. She slipped the correct key into the ignition with a metallic scrape, held her breath nervously, and twisted. The engine turned over with a gentle roar, but the sound did not draw any unwanted attention.

She briefly checked the dash, noting with relief that the tank was full and none of the idiot lights were on. Once she was satisfied as to the car's functionality she threw it into reverse and backed up to the house, positioning the trunk as close to the entrance as she could without making it impossible to get through the door. Nick poked his head outside as she parked, and cocked a teasing eyebrow at her in the mirror as if to say “See? I told you so.” She stuck her tongue out at him, but smiled anyway.

“So am I driving?” she asked as she returned to camp, head finally clearing enough to connect some dots. “You two must be awfully tired, if you were _up_ all night...”

The slight emphasis made Nick smirk and Ellis blush. The conman looked so smug that Rochelle was sorely tempted to smack the expression right off his face.

“I'm gonna pretend I didn't just hear that,” Coach groaned. “We gonna get movin' sometime this year?”

After breakfast they loaded up their new ride. Coach, with some help, hopped along on his good leg to get into the wagon's spacious trunk – with two of the three back seats folded flat, there was more than enough room for him to lie down.

“Three eight-hour shifts, I guess?” Rochelle asked as they arranged their luggage around their injured companion. “With one driver and one lookout awake all the time, we'll only have to stop for supplies.”

“How 'bout we head back ta that crazy dude's house 'fore we git goin'?” Ellis suggested enthusiastically. “Even with Coach takin' up room in the back we can pack up, like, _everythin'_!”

“I don't trust yo' ass t'not bury me in guns, boy,” the big man objected, but he was overruled.

“We need all the help we can get,” the journalist said with an approving nod. “It's a good idea, even if it does mean backtracking a little.”

“I'll make sure Overalls doesn't go nuts,” Nick added absentmindedly, running a hand across the trunk's fuzzy beige lining. Rochelle caught the look in his eye, and firmly resolved _not_ to tell Coach what-all had probably happened there overnight. The poor man was miserable enough already.

“Seat belts, everyone,” she chided as they all piled in.

It had taken upwards of three hours to walk the distance; with the car, the trip passed in a jiffy. Nick and Rochelle both had to restrain Ellis from trying to bring the entire contents of the house with them, but they did allow him to keep the grenade launcher, which thrilled him to no end. In the space of half an hour they were fully loaded with gas cans, first aid, rations, ammo, and a few extra firearms. Another ten minutes after Rochelle took the wheel, both younger men were out cold.

“How're you feeling, Coach?” the driver called quietly as the landscape flew past. “Got enough painkillers back there?”

“Yeah, I'm awright,” he answered, in a tight voice that contradicted his words somewhat. “That hunter beat my ass fair 'n square, though.”

“It ambushed you, Coach. I wouldn't call that fair,” quipped the journalist, steering carefully around a fallen tree limb. “Do the bandages need to be cleaned?”

“I don’t think so. Nick did a good job this mornin'. Just can't move too much.”

“All right. Be sure to let me know if you think something's wrong.”

“Will do, baby girl... But I might pass out, hope that's okay wit'chu.”

She sighed. “Wake Nick up if you do. I need a second pair of eyes, since I'm watching the road.”

Coach felt the need to squirm uncomfortably, but refrained so as not to aggravate his wound. Ellis had called shotgun – and enforced his claim with a SPAS-12 – which left the gambler passed out in the back seat, snoring gently a foot away from the older man's head. Although Coach had made a nominal peace with the boys' relationship, it still bothered him on a level he couldn't quite reach. All the innuendo that the younger three loved so much only made it worse; he’d do almost anything for them to just not talk about it at all.

He rapidly shifted his gaze away from his slumbering teammate, instead catching Rochelle's eyes in the rear-view mirror and grunting his agreement.

His emotional state didn't cross the journalist's mind; she was too busy at the wheel, alert for movement in the tall pines that grew along the road. She'd taken the northern fork just west of what passed for a town, and if her internal compass was right, they'd hit I-85 any minute now. Even at her cautious speed, the car was making short work of the distance – what would have taken them almost a whole day to walk was gone in a flash, and at this rate they'd make Montgomery before the end of the day.

 _Hell,_ she thought, making a rapid estimation. _I'm only going fifteen..._ _But if we don't run into any problems, we'll be in Mobile before my shift is over!_

Not even that big old “if” could ruin the rush of joy she felt at the realization. Under perfect conditions, those two hundred and fifty miles would take at least a week on foot – and with their injured man, the trek would be impossible! Yet here she was, six hours from the coast, wondering if she ought to stop off in Montgomery to hunt for news. Supplies were no object, for once, and she knew there was an NBC affiliate someplace downtown.

In short order they passed through another dense expanse of trees, and the highway interchange came into view beyond a few poorly tended fields. Rochelle saw the signs directing westbound traffic to the other side of an overpass and proceeded, quite giddily, to ignore them. Snickering to herself like a misbehaving child, she crossed the yellow line and turned the wrong way up an eastbound exit. There were only a few oncoming cars, either wrecked or long since abandoned. The journalist wove between them, gently swerving from one lane to the other as though the interstate were a closed-track obstacle course. Beside her Ellis' limp form rocked with inertia, still fast asleep and completely oblivious to the rhythmic movement.

The road crossed a small river, split into another interchange, and passed over a decent-sized street that ran at an odd angle beneath the bridge. It was about this time that both conscious survivors began to notice infected again – and unfortunately, the infected noticed them, too.

“Ro?” Coach called uneasily as he watched the zombies sprint for the car. “Them bastards're followin' us.”

“Don't worry, they can't catch us,” the driver assured him. “If you think they're getting too close, just shoot out the window. Can you reach?”

“Yeah, I'll manage,” her teammate sighed, fingering his rifle possessively. “You reckon we oughta shake 'em off every so often, kinda thin the pack?”

“Is it getting that bad?” Rochelle asked, a worried note entering her voice. She glanced in the driver's-side mirror and saw three or four bloody figures running along behind; a similar scene greeted her from the passenger's-side, and several more were visible in the rear-view. A twinge in her gut spurred her to increase her speed a bit; at twenty-five there was no way their pursuers could catch up, “closer than they appear” notwithstanding.

Even so, the mood was tense as they proceeded ever farther southwest. Debris piles were harder to dodge smoothly at the higher velocity, and the more rapid course adjustments began to disturb their sleeping teammates. Nick's infrequent snores became harsh and irregular; Ellis started murmuring to himself, little groans and half-articulated words that reminded Rochelle of the smoker incident.

“Nnh, yeah... jus' like... mmm...”

The driver took advantage of a clear stretch of road to glance over at her passenger. His eyes were pinched shut and his brow was furrowed, but there was a tiny smile on his lips as they moved in unconscious speech.

“Baby girl?” came Coach's voice from the back. Rochelle checked the rear-view mirror again, and saw the older man looking worriedly out behind them. “I think we're in trouble...”

“What is it?” the journalist asked sharply, disturbed by the tone in his voice. She saw him heft his rifle before she had to return her attention to the wheel.

“We got a charger,” he answered tightly, reaching awkwardly for the window control. “Better step on it if we don't wanna end this road trip early.”

“Shit,” she swore under her breath, swerving the car to the right to avoid a totaled SUV. Ellis moaned. “Can't. Any faster and I don’t think I can avoid these wrecks.”

“Ro...”

They both heard it: the eerie bellow that always preceded an incoming attack. The driver felt the blood freeze in her veins, and her suddenly wide eyes darted towards the center divider – nothing more than a thin strip of grass here, though Jersey barriers cropped up a few seconds ahead. In the sliver of time before it was too late her hands jerked the wheel, hard, and the wagon skipped across to the other half of the highway.

Crossing over made the car rattle and shake violently, though it was a considerably less violent transition than being impacted by the sprinting zombie would have been. As Rochelle straightened them out, Coach used the fishtail motion to drag himself upright and get his gun pointed out the window. When the charger flew past he let loose, dropping it to the asphalt like an unwanted doll.

Either the rough terrain or the noise was enough to bring the two other men out of their slumber in a hurry. Nick's hand was on his pistol almost before his eyes were open, and he jerked against his seat belt as though trying to dive for cover. Ellis came alive with a strangled cry, scrabbling for the shotgun leaning against his leg and staring around wildly.

“Holy hell, the fuck wuzzat?” he exclaimed, hefting the weapon with one hand and pawing at his eyes with the other.

“Young'un! Watch where you point that thing!” Coach ordered as the long barrel waved about haphazardly.

“What's going on?” Nick asked sharply, reaching forward to push the mechanic's arm down. Rochelle surveyed their course and tightened her grip on the wheel.

“Charger,” she told him when she could breathe evenly again. “It's dead, but we had to dodge.”

“Christ,” the conman muttered, rolling his right shoulder in its socket as though it pained him. “I knew it was a bad idea to let the woman drive... Kidding! I'm kidding!” He backpedaled hastily as all three of his teammates trained stern gazes on him.

“What he _means_ is 'nice job,' Ro,” Coach said darkly.

“Think ya can pull it off again?” asked Ellis, a fearful edge cutting through his sleep-thick voice. “We got a tank inbound, yer shootin' musta spooked it!”

Rochelle rapidly scanned the area, and saw the huge form lumbering along the emergency lane at five o'clock. It tossed aside cars like empty soda cans, bashing them out of its way with hardly any effort. She gasped, adrenaline flooding her veins like so much electricity, and her grip on the wheel tightened until the skin on her knuckles was stretched white. If the hulking thing managed to hit their vehicle they were dead, Swedish steel exoskeleton or no.

“Hold on, guys,” she warned, and floored it.

Fully loaded as it was, the car took a few seconds to get up to speed. The delay saved the survivors from an otherwise violent jerk, but they still felt the acceleration as a nauseatingly hard tug on their internal organs. The engine roared, but so did their pursuer – it sped up to match them, barreling down the highway so fast that the men could hardly believe their eyes. Rochelle didn't look, concentrating instead on not crashing into anything.

As she swerved violently past a dark blue sedan she noticed a brightly colored streak on the side of the road, in the diamond shape that indicated a warning sign. She flicked her gaze back and forth between the highway and the shoulder, catching more brief glimpses of international-distress orange every few hundred meters, until finally she was forced to slow down by the remains of a five-car pileup. Beside the debris, a solar-powered LED billboard flashed “ROAD ENDS ½ MILE” in a frantic rhythm of bright yellow lights. Rochelle only just managed to read it before a flying Subaru knocked it over in a shower of sparks. She winced and strained to see ahead, looking for an exit or a reason why the freeway might suddenly be cut off.

“It's gaining on us!” Nick hissed, already pale skin gone just that much paler under a thick dusting of black stubble.

“Gimme the launcher,” Ellis ordered abruptly, yanking off his hat and unbuckling his seat belt with a _click_ that was audible even above the road noise. His male teammates both shot him a Look, but when the mechanic reached for the sunroof, they understood. Coach reached farther into the trunk to fetch the clunky weapon and passed it to Nick, who made sure it was loaded and handed it to the younger man in the front seat.

“Hang on ta me,” the southerner directed as he carefully stood up on the center storage unit. The conman leaned forward to brace his legs, clutching tight to buffer their impromptu artilleryman against the continued swaying of the vehicle.

“Careful, boy!” Coach called breathlessly over the sound of wind. Ellis wedged himself into the opening of the roof and raised the grenade launcher to his eye, grinning madly as he took aim.

“Oh, man, this is just like a movie!” he gushed, though his teammates could not hear. “I can't _wait_ ta tell Kei-”

He remembered in the second before he pulled the trigger. The grenade went wide as a result, exploding on the eastbound side of the highway as the mechanic felt an ice-cold grip squeeze his throat. He shook his head vigorously and raised the gun again, the next round having already spun into place after the first was fired.

Meanwhile, Rochelle had spotted both the end of the line and an escape route. It looked like Montgomery had tried to wall itself off, erecting a barrier across the inbound highway and directing traffic away. A cut-through had been made in the median to allow for U-turns, and the blockade was positioned just a few meters beyond an exit that peeled off to the north.

 _Like hell I'm turning back_ , the journalist thought grimly. _Looks like we're taking a little detour!_

“ _Shit_! I think I pissed it off!” Ellis yelped as his second grenade hit the tank ineffectually in the chest. Rochelle glanced in the rear-view and saw the slightly charred creature speed up even more, roaring like a freight train and headed straight for them.

“How the hell is it going so fast?!” she cried. Her voice hurt on its way out from her throat, and she swallowed with fear as she focused on the road again.

“We gotta go faster than it can, baby girl!” Coach's words were punctuated by the hollow _pop_ of Ellis' third projectile being fired from its chamber, and a dull _boom_ as it exploded.

“Hit the nitro!” the mechanic hollered, taking aim once again. “Toby's got an after-market booster, now's the time ta use it!”

“Can this car even handle...?!” Nick yelled into Ellis' shins.

“Don't matter, just _do it_!” Another grenade leaped from his weapon to find its target.

“Here goes nothing,” whispered Rochelle, and punched the big blue button set into the console.

The rich mix of gas didn't do much because the wagon was so heavy, but it was enough. Combined with a fifth shot from their gunner, which blew a hole in the pavement and stumbled the tank, the extra speed boost gave the driver enough of a lead to dodge another flung car and tear away down the final exit. Ellis swayed dangerously, but with Nick's help he managed to keep his balance and send his last grenade right into the massive zombie's face. It fell at last, and as soon as the chamber was empty he sank back down into the car, panting slightly.

“You okay, kiddo? Want me to reload this?” Nick asked quietly, relieving him of the weapon with one hand and stabilizing him with the other. The mechanic nodded gratefully, pulled his cap back on over his windswept curls, and collapsed into the front seat with a harsh sigh.

Coach watched out the back as the small crowd of infected fell farther and farther behind. The scenery passed in a blur, green and brown streaking away like warp drive in reverse. He absentmindedly passed a few grenades to the conman, feeling a slight tension in his chest that did not dissipate even when they whipped around some curves and the trees fully hid their pursuers from view. It was only when the car abruptly jerked and elicited a sick grinding noise that he could put a finger on the source of his discomfort.

“Oh, that don't sound too good,” Ellis breathed, placing a concerned hand on the dashboard as Rochelle's eyes went nervously wide.

“We're still moving,” Nick said sharply. “Don't stop until we have to.”

“What _was_ that?” the driver asked, easing off the gas and slowing until the sound died off. “And does anyone else smell burning?”

“Yer right, Nick, Toby's engine ain't made for a booster like that,” the mechanic chuckled humorlessly. “One-use only. When we stop I gotta take a look at 'er.”

A brief quiet reigned, as all four listened attentively to the vehicle's labored growling. Coach gazed out the window, noting a few dirt tracks splitting off from the road they were on – but they didn't look as though they led to anything worthy of the term “civilization.” They were so faint that once they were out of sight, the older man wasn't sure if the paths had been made by people or by wildlife.

As the survivors continued to limp down the road the trees began to grow thicker, and their branches formed an arch overhead to block out the sky.

“Maybe this ain't the best time ta ask,” Coach rumbled as the sunlight faded to gloom, “but where in the hell are we?”


	20. Chapter 20

There was an uncomfortable silence as the car labored along the deserted road. Rochelle tried to call up a mental map of the area, but she'd only ever been along the highway before – this backwoods road was completely unknown territory, and though she could trace where they’d been, she had no idea what lay ahead.

“I don't know where this goes,” she admitted. “But I'm not turning around, so I guess we'll find out.”

“We're headin' the wrong way, though,” Ellis said, quizzically tilting his head to the side a slight few degrees.

Nick hid an affectionate smile, finding that he’d become quite fond of the hick’s curious little habit. “We can cut south later,” he rumbled from the backseat.

Rochelle nearly refused, but immediately felt ashamed of the cruel spark in her brain. The idea stuck, though – why not just keep going north, towards her family and the safety of winter?

“First decent-sized road that turns west, you take it,” Coach advised, and the journalist nodded vaguely. “Can any of y'all see the sun?”

“Naw, man, the trees're too thick,” answered the mechanic, leaning forward to peer up through the windshield. “Actually reminds me a' this one time, me an' the guys went hikin', an'...”

“Not now, young'un,” his countryman sighed, and winced as the car rattled over some gravel. “ _Ow,_ god _dam_ mit...”

The injured man dug around in a bag for a moment, and fished out a small bottle of painkillers. With a practiced reflex he twisted off the child-proof cap and knocked back a handful, swallowing them dry without so much as a cough.

A few quiet minutes later Coach was fast asleep, but something nagged uneasily at Nick's thoughts and prevented him from following suit. He looked down at the seat next to him and spotted the near-empty medicine bottle – which was a clear orange prescription cylinder, not a friendly white container of over-the-counter aspirin. He picked it up suspiciously and squinted at the label just a touch, noticing that the patient information had been blacked out with permanent marker. He rubbed at his eyes in annoyance, silently cursing the exhaustion that made the letters swim in his vision. When he finally blinked them into clarity he hissed in alarm, and started vigorously shaking his teammate awake with only partial success.

“Coach. Coach! How the hell many of those did you just take?”

“Dunno,” the older man murmured blearily. “Why..?”

“This is oxycodone,” Nick explained, voice laced with restrained urgency. The older man hardly reacted, but Rochelle reared her head up to look at them, eyes wide. Ellis, already sinking slowly into another nap, stirred fretfully. Then he caught sight of the bottle, and snapped out of it in a hurry.

“Aw _shit_ , man, that's enough ta knock out an elephant!”

“Pull over,” the northerner ordered sharply, not taking his gaze off Coach's worryingly blank face. Rochelle released a breath, just the slightest bit frustrated under her anxiety, but she immediately swerved to the side without any argument. Nick released his seatbelt and threw open the door before the car stopped, triggering a fantastically annoying _ding_ noise before the driver hurriedly cut the engine.

Ellis hopped out of the vehicle mere seconds after his lover, jogging around to where the conman was heaving open the rear hatch. Rochelle put on the emergency brake and fumbled with her seatbelt.

“Guys, what are you-”

“We gotta get it outta his stomach,” Ellis explained, exhaustion and exasperation mingling with concern under his drawl. He helped Nick drag Coach out of the car and prop him up on the bumper, grimacing with apprehension. “Just like that one time when Keith ate all that raw chicken...”

Nick let Ellis support their patient while he washed his hands with a bottle of water. “Sorry, buddy, you ain't gonna like this,” he warned. “If it helps, neither will I...” And without bothering to dry off his hands, the conman grabbed Coach by the jaw and shoved two fingers down his throat.

Ellis cringed in sympathy as their teammate gagged, heaved, and brought up the rest of the overdose that was slowly shutting him down. Nick caught the mechanic's eye, his haggard face a picture of resigned misery that the younger man desperately wished he could soothe. Instead they locked on to one another's presence, riding out their teammate's sickness with clenched teeth and iron wills.

Nick forced his whole being to focus on his companion's hazy blues, utterly walling off the hotly disgusting sensation that washed over his hand. The chunky burn could be ignored so long as Ellis was there, his broadly chiseled face serving as a most pleasant distraction for the time being. Only when Coach hacked and sputtered a breath around the northerner's choking hand did Nick spare a thought for how much he would like some sanitizing gel.

“Breathe, Coach,” he urged, removing his fingers from the injured man's mouth and washing them off with a wince of revulsion. “Talk to me, are you okay?”

“Ah- _augh_ , God...” Coach moaned, and spat repeatedly to clear his throat. “What the... you outta yo' mind..?”

“Hey, lookit me,” Ellis ordered, concern sharpening the words enough that both older men snapped to attention. “Coach! Lissen, are ya dizzy? Ya gonna be sick again?”

“Wh... Ellis? That you?” His patient gaped at him, gesturing vaguely and blinking as though unsure of where he was.

The mechanic took the half-empty water bottle from Nick and held it to his countryman's lips. “Wash out'cher mouth. An' drink somethin', if ya can hold it down.”

Rochelle felt slightly useless in the face of the younger men’s rapid response. She stood awkwardly by, fraught with concern, poised with one hand over her mouth and the other clutching her stomach as she watched the boys tend their comrade. Before very long she started noticing the dark circles under their eyes, and the determined way they kept themselves from yawning as they worked.

The journalist forcefully swallowed the bile in her throat and convinced her legs to approach them. “Is he okay?” she asked gently. They glanced at each other noncommittally, but the danger seemed to have passed. She relaxed a bit, and softly touched their shoulders. “Go back to sleep, boys. I'll find somewhere better to park, and keep watch.”

Nick crumpled slightly at the contact, more like a defensive cringe than an exhausted slump. He seemed to resent the need for rest, but didn't move to take his annoyance out on Rochelle. Instead he ran a weary hand through his hair, and brushed past her to return to his seat.

“Thanks,” Ellis said quietly when he'd gotten Coach horizontal once more. The older man was eerily pale, and fussed like an unhappy infant. “G'wan an' see if she'll even start up, though. I got a bad feelin' 'bout what that nitro mighta did ta the engine.”

Rochelle nodded, and returned to the wheel with a worried heaviness slowing her pace. She perched on the edge of welcoming leather, leaving one foot on the ground outside, and leaned in to turn the key with low expectations. It was exactly as she'd feared.

“Aw, hell,” Ellis sighed as the engine chugged but did not turn over. He changed course from the passenger's seat to the hood, and motioned for Rochelle to loose the catch that would allow him access. “Somethin' wrong with the spark plugs, I guess, but I ain't too sure. Lemme take a look-see here...”

The journalist stood back up without opening the hood, shut her door, and drew the mechanic away. He seemed to be on autopilot, and resisted her firm grip with a weak protest. She didn't let him get very far.

“Ro, I gotta fix-”

“No, sweetie, you gotta get some sleep,” she told him, shoving him back into his own seat. “In your state you'll probably just hurt yourself. I'll wake you up later, okay?”

“Awright, fine...” he mumbled, and pulled the lever to recline. Nick gave the approaching seat-back a blank look, as if daring Ellis to push it too close, but the younger man stopped before invading his personal space. Rochelle couldn't help smiling as she closed the door, letting the southerner curl up around his shotgun like a twelve-gauge teddy bear.

“Rochelle,” Nick called as she got comfortable in the trunk, P90 at the ready. She peeked at him over the backseat.

“What is it, suit?”

He didn't even glare at her, apparently too tired to do anything but ignore the affectionate jibe. “Keep a close eye on Coach, okay? If he gets quiet, check his pulse, and if it's too weak, give him adrenaline. A full shot, right into the heart. Got it?”

“Really? Like in _Pulp Fiction_?”

“Exactly like it,” Nick confirmed, and yawned hugely. Rochelle was struck by how much the action made him look like a cat. “Trust me. Where do you think they got the idea?”

“Okay,” she answered incredulously. The northerner tilted his head in acknowledgment and bedded down for the third time that day, furrowed brow smoothing out in surprisingly short order.

The sole conscious member of their party settled in with a sigh, gaze traveling periodically between the thick woods and her fretful neighbor. She kept herself entertained by getting familiar with their new guns and occasionally making sure that Coach was still alive. An indeterminate amount of time passed this way before a couple of infected came stumbling from the woods. She hefted her axe and cut them down, then passed another indeterminate amount of time meticulously cleaning the blood off.

What little sunlight filtered through the trees gradually shifted, its angle of ascension beginning to drift westward as the hours crawled by. A slight chill started to gather in the shadows; not much, but it was enough to remind Rochelle that the season was changing. It wasn't an uncomfortable temperature, but it stirred some primal fear buried deep in her mind: the fear of a hunted animal, surrounded and on alert with the darkness closing in. It gave her skin an electric edge, and her arms fluttered in a subtle shiver that mirrored the swaying of the pine boughs above.

Eventually the stress of the day and last night’s scant, nightmare-laced sleep began to catch up with her. It wasn't quite sunset yet when she roused the men for dinner, but it was plenty dark under the trees and night couldn’t be far away. Coach required significant effort to drag out of his restless slumber; the other two came awake with battle instincts at the ready, hands on their guns before their eyes even opened.

“I'll change Coach's bandages,” Rochelle said tiredly as they ate cold Spaghetti-O's and vegetable soup. “Can you two handle the engine before it’s too dark to see?”

Ellis glanced up at the hidden sky and rubbed at the back of his neck. “I can try,” he answered dubiously. “If we're lucky, she'll just need her spark plugs tweaked. If we ain't... I don't wanna think about it.”

“So don't,” Nick told him encouragingly. “C'mon, kiddo, where's that redneck optimism? You'll have us up and running in no time.”

The younger men exchanged a glance that made Rochelle feel like she was intruding. She ducked her head to hide a smile and occupied herself with getting Coach to eat.

For his part, their injured companion focused mainly on holding down his food. The powerful painkillers didn't seem to have caused any real damage, but he felt weak and his leg was throbbing something awful. He silently cursed himself as he fought with his beleaguered system, and maintained a grim silence while his adopted sister cleaned out his stitches. She worked quickly, but with an oddly tentative quality, like a perpetual wince. Coach sighed, knowing that the injury must be pretty nasty to make a tough cookie like Rochelle get squeamish. The breath caught in his throat as an alcohol wipe burned against his wound, echoing the burn of thin resentment he inflicted upon himself.

Meanwhile Ellis was shoulders-deep under the hood of the car, while Nick stood by with the repair kit and a flashlight to hold back the gloom. The conman couldn't distinguish the radiator from the battery, but he thoroughly enjoyed the view of his young lover's bent-over rear. He had to remind himself to keep half an eye on their surroundings, just in case, but the treeline remained still in the fading twilight.

“'Ey, Nick,” the southerner called to him, voice echoing faintly through the machinery. “Pass me the tap, wouldja please?”

“Um...” the gambler hummed uncertainly, poking gingerly through the unfamiliar toolbox. “What's it look like?”

“It's a sorta half-square rod... Well, it's got a bolt in the middle an'...” Ellis paused, then chuckled and stood straight. He carried a greasy piece of metal in his left hand, and reached into the kit with his right. “This,” he said, displaying the oddly-shaped item he wanted and applying it to the other object he held. “It's for cuttin' new threads in a screw or screw hole. I was right about the spark plugs bein' blown out, so I'm gonna see if this'll do the trick re-seatin' 'em.”

“Uh-huh,” Nick said vaguely over the slight screech of steel on aluminum. The technical details of auto repair didn't interest him all that much – but the undisguised enthusiasm in Ellis' voice did. The mechanic was passionate about his work, and it showed.

He gave everything else a good once-over before trying the ignition again. He tightened a bolt here, cleaned a contact there, checked all the fluid levels, and briefly squirmed underneath the chassis to examine the power train. By the time he was satisfied the sun was nearly gone, and Nick was forced to hold the flashlight at this angle and that one so his young lover could see what he was doing.

“Think we're ready to go?” the northerner prompted at last, shaking the gravel out of his jacket once they were done crawling around under the car.

Ellis wiped the grease off his hands and leaned in to turn the key, pausing before he did so to flash a hopeful smile at his companion. “Here goes nothin',” he said, and twisted.

The engine sputtered, coughed – and caught. Rochelle, tying off a final bit of gauze, smiled; Nick moved to the driver's side and squeezed the victorious mechanic's shoulder.

“Nice going, ace,” he muttered warmly, and cherished the broad grin he received in exchange. “Go ahead and relax. I'll drive.”

“Thanks,” Ellis replied bashfully. A momentary hesitation fluttered across his face before he raised a hand to cup the back of Nick's head, and pulled him down to deliver a firm kiss just above his right eye. The northerner blinked, startled by the sudden display of affection. He didn't get the chance to react before the younger man made his way back around the car, slamming the hood down as he went; but when they both were ensconced with their seatbelts on, he let his partner see a certain heat behind his emerald eyes.

The look unexpectedly set Ellis' pulse racing. He felt the stir of something intense curl around his chest, and started fidgeting with his backpack to avoid thinking about it.

“All right, kids, here we go,” Nick called, shifting out of park.

Rochelle kept vigil over Coach for a while, but nodded fretfully off soon after her patient did. The only sounds for a while were the gentle purr of the engine and the crunch of dirt under their wheels – both relaxing enough, but Ellis felt on edge, as though something was not quite right.

If Nick had the same idea, he didn't show it. He was at ease behind the wheel, eyes calmly following a repetitive path from road to mirrors and back. Every so often Ellis could have sworn he heard the ex-con humming something, a few isolated bars of music here and there. A couple of times the tune sounded familiar, tantalizingly so, but the southerner couldn't put a finger on it no matter how hard he tried.

“So... do ya know where we're goin'?” he ventured after about ten minutes of driving.

“Not a clue, sport,” the ex-con answered.

Nick had found a place to turn left, and now they were cruising along a properly paved road that was beginning to curve south again. The trees were less densely packed here, and a few fields broke up the landscape; but they'd also spotted some houses, and that meant infected. The driver kept their speed to a healthy thirty miles per hour: slow enough to be safe under these nighttime conditions, but fast enough to easily outrun the commons.

Ellis watched the scenery flash by, absolutely itching to get out and _kill_ something. The car ride occupied a strange place in his mind: too normal-feeling to jive with the last month of panic and stress, but not normal enough to let him relax and enjoy it. _Like Goldilocks_ , he thought, and chuckled to himself. _Either too quiet or too many zombies, but it ain’t quite right_ …

Soon the horizon acquired the irregular silhouette of a city skyline, a darkness considerably blacker than the star-spangled dome of the heavens that arced overhead. Montgomery loomed in the distance, but before it grew much closer a roadblock materialized in the high-beams. Nick was forced to slow, muttering to himself in annoyance at the “detour” sign that pointed off to the right.

“Tits.”

“Can’t we just drive around it?” his companion suggested, sitting up as straight as he could to try and peer over the obstruction.

“Yeah, sure,” the conman sighed, spotting a gap in the fence that stretched away to either side of the blockade. He carefully guided their vehicle through it, wincing at the jolts he was unable to prevent as they rolled over unpaved ground.

Barely a minute later they had to stop again, this time because the road just… _ended_. The men stared at the blasted edge of the pavement, the border of a massive hole in the ground full of rubble and ash.

“Ho-lee _shit_.” Ellis gaped, hypnotized by the utterly black shadows their headlights cast from the broken asphalt. “What happened?”

“Looks like the military stepped up their game,” Nick murmured, catching sight of a scorched and twisted piece of olive-drab metal. “They bombed out the fucking road…”

“Awright, that’s a good reason for the detour,” the mechanic joked weakly, a little shocked. “Do ya think Montgomery’s okay, then? Maybe they managed ta keep themselves isolated like this.”

The driver thought for a moment, then switched off the lights and allowed his eyes to adjust to the darkness. When he could distinguish between shades of grey he trained his gaze on the horizon, picking out the shapes and contours of the distant city. What he saw sent a paralyzing chill down his spine.

“It’s not just the road they took out,” he whispered.

A healthy skyline is made of right angles, and buildings that grow taller closer to the center of downtown. The remains of Montgomery were jagged, flattened, and in some areas still glowing with sullen red smoke. The destruction had been purposeful, thorough – and recent.

“Aw, Jesus,” Ellis sighed, bowing his head sadly. “They must be tryin’ ta get rid a’ the infected all ol’-fashioned-like. Scorched earth, ‘s what it’s called.”

“No kidding.” Nick allowed himself a few more seconds of staring before flicking the high-beams back on and executing a K-turn. A few pairs of yellow eyes caught the light ominously from the surrounding darkness, predatory sparks that never ceased to give the men quiet shivers.

When they approached the barricade once more, Ellis noticed that it seemed to be as strongly built on the inside as it had been on the outside. More so, in fact; layers of barbed wire were draped over everything, and the fence was bent inwards at the top, like that of a prison. _What in the world…_ he began to wonder – but then he caught sight of the bodies.

“Christ,” Ellis breathed, and began to mutter a prayer. His hand somehow found its way to Nick’s, and they gripped each other tight as the car passed between heaps of corpses – _uninfected_ corpses, with skin that wasn’t Flu-green – that lay in a bloody sprawl at the base of the blockade. As they got closer they could make out the bullet holes, chilling proof of how these people had died. They were surrounded by pools of dried gore, and the beginnings of rot that reflected a sick sheen off the ground. The sight planted seeds of pure terror deep in both men’s hearts.

“They’re killing us.” Nick’s voice was thin and tight with a pained mix of anger and fear. “The army is killing us. _Survivors_. They’re rounding us up and killing us.”

Ellis couldn’t reply. His throat felt like it was full of broken glass, and his stomach was reacting as though the ground had dropped away underneath him. Why was this happening? Were the evacuated refugees in danger, too? He squeezed his lover’s hand tight, but the usually reassuring contact wasn’t quite comforting enough this time.

The wagon rumbled back to the road and took off westward, the driver’s foot heavy with cold rage and the infected sprinting along behind.


	21. Chapter 21

"Shit, shit, shit. What the hell we gonna do?"

Nick ignored Ellis' vacant mutters for the time being and focused on the pavement. There were more roadblocks at every opportunity to turn south, and sometimes the fence around Montgomery gleamed in the distant dark. He kept to the left anyway, hoping to skirt the city and continue on to New Orleans as soon as possible.

There were plenty of infected so close to the city, chasing them in a peloton that changed constantly as individual zombies joined up and fell behind like relay racers. The driver's lead foot kept the car well ahead of the main pack, but he knew that at some point they'd have to stop and deal with the threat.

"Woah, woah, hold up a sec," Ellis piped up when they were fully north of the city, pressing his hands to the window and peering out into the night. "Slow down, there's some kinda outpost over there."

"Military?" his partner asked, in a voice that promised all kinds of pain for anyone left alive there.

"Looks like," the mechanic confirmed grimly as the car began to decelerate. He reached for his shotgun and rolled down his window. "We got a few seconds 'fore them zombies catch up. Turn sharp an' I'll give 'em a broadside."

Nick couldn't help but snort in amusement. "Really, kiddo?  _Broadside_?"

"Whatever, y'know what I mean," Ellis grumbled as his lover hit the brakes and yanked on the wheel, taking a hard right and making the car skid in a violent drift. "Git some, you sons-a'-bitches!" he growled at their pursuers, and pulled the trigger.

Several things happened at once. The noise and jerking woke Coach and Rochelle, who scrabbled for their weapons with differing degrees of success; clusters of infected began to fall as they ran face-first into Ellis' wide-scattered lead shot; and Nick spotted something moving in the little fortification by the side of the road. Now illuminated by their headlights, he could see that it was a slapdash corrugated-iron affair surrounded by a perimeter of Jersey barriers and decorated with "No Admittance" warnings. What caught his eye, however, was the movement of a smoker in forest-green fatigues shambling awkwardly past the gate. Its eyes reflected a yellow glare as it leaned back and curled up its tongue to strike.

"Not a chance, asshole," the gambler snarled, overcome with an absurd and sudden rage. He rode out the few seconds of inevitable fishtail as the wagon struggled for purchase on the asphalt; as soon as he regained control, he took aim at the mutated soldier and gunned it.

"Nick, wh-  _aaahh_!" Ellis cried as his last shot blew harmlessly off into the sky. The car bounded over the shoulder and onto the grass, with Nick gripping the wheel like grim death. Time decided to have a seizure, making what couldn't have been more than two seconds seem like a chaotic, instantaneous eternity full of stark lights and violent motion.

There was a tremendous, juicy  _thud_.

Unnaturally dark blood and filthy green smoke sprayed everywhere.

The car came to a painfully short stop.

The airbags deployed.

Rochelle got mad.

" _Mother_  of  _mercy_ , what the  _hell_  do you think you're doing?!" she began furiously while the others were still dazed and blinking. "In what universe was that a good idea? Nick, I swear to god, if you're not already hurt I will rip you a new one-"

She was forced to stop by the toxic gas that drifted in through the open window, making all four survivors start to hack and cough. Her scolding was temporarily delayed while they unsteadily scrambled to get out of the car and fend off the last few zombies Ellis hadn't managed to shoot from the window. Coach laboriously dragged himself to the door, but Nick had to help him stand; both men choked on their own breath as they struggled to get out of the area. On the passenger's side of the car the younger two fired blindly through the smoke, spraying bullets wildly until the inhuman sound of the infected died away and their final attacker collapsed in a bloody pulp at Ellis' feet.

Nick, still gasping, supported Coach over to the compound wall. He left the older man leaning there, then held his breath for the ten seconds it took to reclaim the car keys. When the still-growling engine lost power a limp silence fell, punctuated only by the labored wheezing of the survivors as they shakily regrouped inside the courtyard.

"Give me those," Rochelle hissed, snatching the keys out of the conman's hand before turning concerned eyes on the Georgians. "Is everyone okay?"

The northerner barely noticed her ire – he was preoccupied with a thorough visual inspection of Ellis. The mechanic rubbed at the back of his neck, not in thought or embarrassment, but to ease the pain of whiplash. Nick relaxed slightly now that the danger had passed, but the tightness at the corner of his lover's eyes made him kick himself inside.

"Been better," Ellis mumbled, rolling his head around to stretch. Coach, using the wall for support, gingerly let himself down to sit on a Jersey barrier.

"Explain yo'self, suit," the older man said, in a voice made less commanding by dizzying weakness and pain. "An' pray t'God that car still works in the mornin'."

"The car's fine, it's a Volvo," Nick said dismissively. His poker face was so bad that Rochelle could see the regret in his eyes before he turned away, but it didn't make her any less angry.

"Oh, you know that for sure, huh?" she snapped, propping her unarmed hand on her hip. "So you knew  _exactly_  what you were doing, just now, crashing straight into a concrete wall? Just what was wrong with the road that compelled you to drive  _right off it_?"

"Give me  _some_  credit, cupcake," the gambler hissed, jabbing a finger at their smoke-shrouded vehicle. "I saved our fucking  _lives_  is what I did. When that clears, you'll see-"

"What, from one stupid smoker?" Rochelle cut him off, gesturing furiously with her gun. "I'll tell you how to keep it from killing us –  _keep goddamn driving_."

"Uh," Ellis piped up, half-raising his hand in a gesture of peace. Both arguing parties whipped around to face him. "It was kinda my idea ta stop. I didn't see the smoker. Sorry."

"Don't apologize, sweetie-" the journalist began, at the same instant that Nick growled "It's not your fault, kiddo-"

"You're damn right, Colonel Sanders, because it's  _your_  fault," Rochelle savagely jumped in again; Nick started to talk over her, and the argument rapidly devolved into a vicious shouting match.

"Nobody asked you-"

"Nearly got us killed-"

"-could've dragged him out the window-"

"-wake us the hell up-"

"-how'd  _you_  feel if-"

"-think I don't know?-"

" _ENOUGH_!"

Coach's roar echoed off the walls, making them ring. Even hunched with discomfort, his figure was full of an angry power that demanded the others' attention. His haggard face was furious in the weak starlight.

"Calm. Yo' asses.  _Down_ ," he commanded them both, in a voice so cold that Rochelle caught herself involuntarily shivering. "Ellis, get the car to the yard. Nick, block up the gate. Ro, clear out the buildin'. No fightin' until we got camp set up, hear me?"

"Yes _sir_ ," answered Ellis, when it became apparent that the other two would do nothing but glare at each other. "C'mon, Nick. Ro, can I have the keys?"

She handed them over in icy silence and waited for the mechanic to drag Nick away. Only once eye contact had been broken did she shake out her anger, check her P90's magazine, and warily approach the little outpost.

The steel door hung open, but had suffered no damage other than a few bullet dents. Rochelle held her weapon steady as she cautiously moved inside, checking the corners with her finger on the trigger before taking a second step past the threshold. A folding table to the left of the entrance must have functioned as some sort of sign-in; it was covered with stationery that had once been organized in neat stacks. A wastepaper bin and a metal folding chair lay on the rammed-earth floor beside it, in a pool of dried blood that made a trail to the corpse by the back wall. The rest of the little room was completely empty, and a single bare bulb hung dark from the ceiling.

Each wall had a door set into it. Two of these had been battered open, and led to dorm-like rooms that doubled as armories. Five decayed bodies, three of which bore signs of infection, were sprawled near one of the gun lockers. The third portal was locked, and of a sturdier construction than the other two. Frantic maroon smears and a significant number of impact marks marred its surface, as though the dead soldier on the ground had tried and failed to reach shelter behind it. The dirt underneath him was tinged an unnatural, acidic green.

Rochelle touched the lock and sighed in frustration – they'd probably need Nick to open this. Right now she'd rather not need him for anything other than staying the hell out of sight until she calmed down.

 _What's the point of staying mad at him?_  she chided herself as she began to drag putrid, half-rotten bodies out of the way, too angry and preoccupied to be grossed out.  _It's a waste of energy. No matter what you say, he'll just do something else dumb to... to... Oh, son of a bitch, Coach, why do you always have to be right?_

She unceremoniously dumped the corpse outside.

* * *

 

"Ellis!" Coach called. The mechanic hesitated getting out of the only mildly damaged car, wary of being summoned by the older man's authoritative voice. "Gitcho' ass over here an' help me, boy!"

The young Georgian glanced over to Nick, seemingly apologizing – or perhaps waiting for permission – before going to tend their injured teammate. Coach only half-saw the look that passed between them, but still shook his head somberly and added another paragraph to the stern lecture he was composing in his head.

"What's up, Coach?" Ellis asked nervously as he trotted across the scrubby courtyard. "Wanna go inside?"

"Yeah. Help me stand," the older man ordered, shifting his weight to facilitate the process. Fire ran up and down his bad leg and his head was swimming, but with the support of his countryman's shoulder he managed to lever himself upright. Together they awkwardly crossed the darkened field and entered the structure, which would have been even darker had Rochelle not placed her flashlight quite so strategically. It stood upright on the table, casting its beam onto the ceiling to fill the room with a pale, reflected glow.

"Over here," the journalist said, dropping the paper she was leafing through to lead Coach to a bunk. "I got him, sweetie. Can you take a look at the other door, maybe get it open? There's probably a generator back there."

"Not so fast, young'un," the older man warned, voice tight as he concentrated on not falling. "Y'all stick with me fo' now."

"Uh... Why?" Ellis asked as the trio maneuvered through the doorway. "What'chu need both of us for?"

They finally drew abreast of one government-issue cot, and shuffled around a bit so that Coach could lie down. "I don't," he sighed, settling in and propping up his leg. It was hard to speak coherently through the pounding ache in his head. "But that cocky slick oughta cool his heels fo' a while, an' if you leave this room, yo' just gonna go hang out with him. Don't gimme that look, you know I'm right."

The look Ellis gave him was a pleading fusion of disbelief and manufactured offense that nearly made Coach regret making the accusation.  _Boy's gettin' some bad habits from that lyin' scumbag,_  he grumbled to himself, and turned his eyes to the shoddy bunk over his head.  _Lord, please, don't let him change._

He heard Rochelle sigh tiredly. The shifting rustle of cloth and plastic and skin indicated that she was adjusting her gun to rub slowly at her face, hands weighted by shackles of exhaustion. Coach found himself sighing, too, adrenaline from the crash finally draining from his system. A heavy fog swam in his mind, padding the sharp words he'd been mulling over and making the whole incident seem more like a simple nightmare that had interrupted his rest. He shifted slightly on the cot to get more comfortable, considering sleepily that a lecture could wait until later. His leg throbbed unpleasantly, but he was too tired and dizzy to care; the last few days had worn down the determination that kept the fatigue of the apocalypse at bay, and at this particular moment he felt as burned out as a straight-A student the day after finals.

"He'd prob'ly chill out faster if ya let me talk to him..."

Coach heard Ellis' voice as if through a tank of water, and decided that he simply didn't have the energy to argue right now. "Just... stay here an'... do somethin' quiet," he mumbled as he closed his eyes, hoping to fall into a pleasant dream.

If only there were such things anymore.

Ellis pouted. It wasn't on purpose, really – he could understand where his countryman was coming from, and honestly Nick's decision worried him as well – but he was too disgruntled in general to fake a smile. He turned to Rochelle with half a mind to try calming her instead, but at the sight of her slumped weakly against the wall a more basic instinct took over.

"You oughta lie down 'fore ya keel over, Ro," he warned, gently relieving her of her weapon. A vaguely directed shrug of his shoulder drew her gaze to the unoccupied top bunk. "Need help gettin’ up there?"

"Thanks, but no thanks." The journalist forced a small grin that vanished into a jaw-breaking yawn as she reached for the ladder.

Ellis turned away once she clambered into bed. He winced slightly at a sharp pain in his neck and got a nasty feeling at the way it lanced up into his head, but rather than ignoring it, he did his best to focus on the sensation as a kind of distraction. Exploring the shape of it was considerably preferable to aimlessly dwelling on the unpleasant questions that lurked in his stomach. He didn't know where to look for answers, anyway.

Nick found him curled in a corner, experimenting with the spears of hot ice in the muscles around his spine. He glanced up when the conman entered and rapidly let his hand fall back into his lap, trying to hide the pain like a child caught writing notes in class. The last thing he wanted to do was make the older man feel any worse about the crash – there was no doubt in his mind that his lover was already beating himself up inside.

"They're out cold." He vaguely indicated the bunk bed with his shotgun, and in an attempt to head off an all-too-likely silence, fell into an awkward ramble. "Toby ain't in too bad shape, but I gotta give her another once-over in the mornin'... There ain't enough light outside ta do any work right now, but even if I was tired I dunno if I could sleep at all, I mean, I can't stop thinkin' 'bout all them people – the uninfected ones, like, ain't we supposed ta work t'gether, us against them? How the hell could anyone wanna kill another livin', breathin' person when we got zombies tryin' ta eat us all...?"

Once he'd begun, Ellis felt like he couldn't stop. The very questions he hadn't wanted to dwell on came pouring from his lips like blood from a wound, and kept coming despite the horrified realization widening his eyes.

"...an' I got  _family_  in the army, thought we'd be safe with 'em, but what if they...?"

His gun fell to the floor as he vainly tried to stifle himself, but the words would not cease – they simply spilled into his muffling palms instead. Ellis felt the hot prickle of tears beginning to form, and his teammate's dirty blue-and-white shape blurred in his vision. He squeezed his eyes shut in shame, but a moment later felt a pair of hands gently prying his wrists apart and away from his mouth.

Nick laid a single calloused finger on the mechanic's lips, freezing them in place and staunching the flow of words at last. Ellis peeked at his partner from underneath heavy lids, making the ex-con's heart ache desperately at the sight of those agonized sapphire eyes just inches away from his own. He moved slowly, drawing the sensitive pad of his finger down and away from the skin of his lover's lips like an artist stroking canvas with a brush. The gesture was intimate, but not sensual; Nick felt nothing so much as cold anger at the world that had damaged his precious redneck, and that world started with himself.

A feathery lock of hair sticking out from under Ellis' cap caught the gambler's attention. Those dirty brown curls had gotten somewhat shaggy since the beginning of their ordeal, a fact that ordinarily faded inconsequentially into the background; but something about this one awkward tuft, fluffy and out-of-place as fledgling down, drew Nick's eye. Reaching for it wasn't instinctual, exactly, but something convinced him it was the appropriate thing to do.

So he brushed back Ellis' hair to tuck it softly behind his ear, coaching himself through the motions of comfort despite the nearly overwhelming desire to kill something. Kneeling on the hard-packed earth, the assassin leaned forward in a gentle embrace and guided the young man's forehead to rest on his white-clad shoulder. The little voice inside prompted him to speak – so he did, but like someone under a spell. He felt weirdly detached, though an oddly husky tone made his words contain emotions that weren't there.

"Shh, kiddo, it's okay. We'll be all right, the bastards who did it are probably dead already..."

Ellis' body trembled, and his breath came in ragged gulps as he tried not to cry.  _At least he isn't bottling his shit up this time_ , a part of Nick thought wryly.  _Come on, keep talking. And say something nice, for fuck's sake. Or – remember what always got Rebecca to stop fussing?_

The tune came from nowhere, just a few notes, but Ellis seemed to like it. Nick paused to absorb this, then hummed it again. His partner's breathing started to even out, interspersed with heavy swallows as the southerner began to calm down.

 _Good_ , the little voice told him. _Keep going. Hell, pick a song_.

If he'd been in any other mood, the gambler would never even have considered it. At the moment, however, he felt he didn't deserve the dignity he'd protect by refusing; so he opened his mouth, and let the first song he could think of fall quietly from his lips.

" _You know you're a lucky man... Fortune has smiled again..._ "

When was the last time he'd sung like this? Vegas? He'd probably been tipsy and trying to impress some trollop at the craps table. The thought made him cringe a little – but he couldn't stop now, not when his rough serenade finally managed to coax a smile from his torn-up, worn-out teammate.

"... _and lucky don't fade away..._ "

The rest of him curled up in an icy knot, watching.


	22. Chapter 22

Music can be a powerful thing. Ellis, being a musician himself, knew it full well; but this was vastly different from the way he, Keith, and Dave could make their friends cheer. This song touched something deeper, and even as his reddened eyes grew dry, the swell in his chest only increased. It was still hard to breathe, but for an entirely new reason.

Nick's voice faded out all too soon. The ending note lingered delicately in the air like a fragile, iridescent bubble, but dissipated like fragrant smoke. Ellis inhaled at last, trying to capture it, as his partner gently sat back from their embrace to look him in the eye.

"All right there, El?" he murmured tenderly, a strange counterpoint to his expression. There was steel in the green of his irises and a faintly awkward shame tugging at the corner of his lips. Ellis was cogent enough to take the hint.

"Yeah... m'okay. Thanks," he muttered, and sniffed to keep his nose from running. The sound was a distinct break from the last few minutes, a clear signal that they were changing gears now. "Hungry, though. I'm gonna grab a bag from the car, ya want anythin'?"

A ghost of relief flickered across the conman's face. His fingers squeezed Ellis' shoulders just a tiny bit tighter, then let go entirely. "Sure," he grunted, levering himself off his knees.

The mechanic accepted a hand to stand up, flicked on his pistol's flashlight, and trotted outside to where he'd left the car. Toby was hidden from the road behind a corner of the barricade, her front bumper bloody and a bit crunched, but not too much the worse for wear. The junk in the trunk was no longer stacked as neatly as it had been, so it took some effort for Ellis to find his bag of rations. Once it was in hand he lingered, giving both himself and Nick a bit more time to decompress.

 _Why_  was the only question going through his mind at the moment, and though he was calmer now, it still nagged queasily at him like a stomach flu. He locked the car doors and leaned against the driver's side, staring upwards at a night sky unpolluted by light from the leveled city. Just thinking.

He couldn’t wrap his head around what CEDA and the military had done. He figured there had to be some sort of plan behind it all, but the results were too horrifying for him to understand why anybody would go through with it. What with the aborted evacs, and now the bombing, it seemed an awful lot like somebody was trying to make the whole Flu disappear – to destroy it all, pretend it never happened, start over. And they didn’t seem to care if they destroyed people along with the plague. The thought rekindled his fear, the chilling thought that they were running towards death instead of safety.

Ellis shook his head very hard before he freaked himself out again, and redirected himself to a less disturbing topic: Nick. The conman’s startlingly reckless action was worrying, but that wasn’t what interested him at the moment. Instead he pondered his lover’s song – both of them – and tried to recapture the painfully wonderful feeling they’d evoked in his heart. It was a plaintive kind of longing, as though he were inches away from the man but unable to touch him. Fragile connections began to form in the back of his mind, cautiously linking protectiveness and affection and that deep, aching need…

But the snap of a stick jolted him into alertness just before it all made sense, and he decided that he'd dawdled long enough. He hefted the bag over his shoulder, grimacing slightly as cans jabbed into the still-aching muscles of his back, and focused on his steps as he returned to camp.

Nick was waiting for him in the entry hall with a much more composed attitude and something in his hand. It glinted silver in the dim light.

"Crack open your dinner, ace. I've got something to show you," the northerner ordered with a grin.

Ellis sat and ate while the former assassin demonstrated how to pick the padlock he'd retrieved from one of the weapons lockers. The mechanic listened intently to the detailed explanation of how its innards worked, and studied the crude diagram Nick sketched in the dirt floor. He watched with rapt attention as his teacher's nimble fingers popped the bolt open and shut, open and shut as easily as taking the cap off a marker. Once he finished his food he tackled the padlock himself, and soon after unlocking that, faced off against the heavy metal door at the back of the compound.

"Gentle, only gentle pressure," the ex-con quietly reminded his student. Ellis pulled a face and adjusted his fingers on the slim tools he held, easing up on the tension wrench and jiggling the pick once again. "There, feel the pin moving? You were twisting too hard and it jammed. Try again."

"I think... Think I got it..." the mechanic murmured, squeezing his eyes shut in concentration and pressing his ear to the door. Nick suppressed a chuckle as he tossed his empty can of stew aside, amused by the way the southerner's cheek smushed up against the surface. And that expression... He could see every twitch as the would-be burglar heard tiny metal pieces move, recognized the growing confidence, the dawning triumph; a grin suddenly blossomed on Ellis' face and he cawed victoriously, twisting –

And the lock refused to budge.

"Aw,  _hell_!" he swore, letting go to sit back on his heels. He left the picks sticking out of the keyhole like splinters from a broken piece of plywood.

Nick snorted lightly. "Come on, champ. Give it another go," he prompted, kneeling down by the door. "C'mere, look. You're already doing better, see the angle the wrench is at? Pull it back to the starting position, slowly, and listen to the pins as they come down. Listen to how many you got to set."

Ellis stretched his fingers out and sighed, but didn't argue. He resumed his former position, ear sealed against the cool metal, and did as his tutor bade him. Ever so carefully he turned the tumbler counterclockwise, feeling the stress in the tendons of his hand. Quiet, irregular  _ping_  sounds indicated the pins falling back into place: one, two-three, four... five of them.

"Dammit... So close..." he muttered, half annoyed and half determined. Nick had shown him how to tell the number of pins in a lock, and this particular one had six. He'd gotten stuck on the  _last one_.

The ex-con didn't need to provide any more encouragement. Ellis had yet to meet a machine he couldn't learn inside-out and backwards, and what were locks but just another type of machine? The Georgian settled in on the floor and began again.

Nick smiled to himself, proud of his student's persistence, and stood back up to lounge against the wall. The idle wish for a cigarette floated through his mind, not a true craving, but rather a Pavlovian reaction to the lazy slouch his body naturally fell into. For want of something to do with his hands he shoved them into the pockets of his jeans, still not used to the slight tightness of the denim. It made him think of his old slacks, and how crisp the fabric had been when he'd first bought the suit, and how beautiful and snowy-white it used to be. God, he missed being clean. What he wouldn't give for a proper shower...

"What?" he grunted, startled, realizing that Ellis had asked him a question. The younger man, still plastered faithfully to his work, didn't seem to notice his surprise.

"Just wonderin' what that song was," he repeated, then paused as he focused a little harder on manipulating the pick. He seemed satisfied with the result, and continued. "You got a real nice singin' voice, if ya don't mind me sayin'."

Nick was profoundly grateful for the fact that Ellis' eyes remained closed. He ducked his head back against the wall to stare at the ceiling in embarrassment, and swallowed in lieu of clearing his throat. "Uh, thanks," he rasped, and was immediately chagrined because of  _course_  his voice would be at its least attractive while responding to that particular compliment. "But, ah... I don't remember where the song's from, sorry. Probably picked it up at a casino or something," he lied.

The southerner's whole body hesitated for a moment. He ran the pad of one finger along the handle of the lockpick, weighing his choices, and decided that there was really no point in waiting any longer to broach the subject.

"Well 'scuse me, Nick, but that's a bunch a' horseshit," he said, with more strength in his voice than he really felt. The guts of the lock sent vibrations down the tools and into his fingers, but he wasn't listening to them anymore. "I reckon this'll sound purdy familiar..."

After nearly draining the Walkman's batteries with that one song on repeat, it was easy to recall the words. Ellis was also perfectly capable of carrying a tune, even without the aid of a bucket, a fact that seemed to surprise Nick just as much as the pattern of notes did. The younger man made it through the first verse and half of a hummed instrumental break before his companion shifted awkwardly and scuffed the dirt.

"What's your point?" the northerner asked, intending to sound dismissive. Ellis pulled a long-suffering face and sat back on his heels, one hand holding the pick and wrench in place while the other rubbed awkwardly at the back of his neck.

"My  _point_  is, you’ve been recorded. Professional-like, like you were a real musician or somethin'. An' I'd kinda like ta know how that stage a' yer life fits in with the rest of it... I mean, y'all pretty much know all there is ta know 'bout me by now, I ain't nothin' special, but... Nick, you always got somethin' hidden. An' after what we've been through, what we, y'know,  _are_..." He trailed off, but not in embarrassment. It was a thoughtful silence.

Nick took one hand from a pocket and rubbed at his face, callouses hissing slightly over too-long-unshaven stubble. Ellis watched from the ground, unable able to read the expression at this angle. He couldn't quite articulate the vague disappointment he felt: the knowledge that no matter how close he thought the two of them were, Nick was still keeping things from him. Some small part of him despaired, upset that his lover didn’t seem to trust him; but his profound hope insisted that he not lose faith.

"Please?" it asked, an invitation to equality.

Nick was quiet for a moment longer, before his shoulders sagged in defeat. "It's... embarrassing," he muttered at last, reluctant, but continuing nonetheless. "It wasn't exactly a creative choice on my part. The boss had this son. Real social butterfly. Everyone loved him – you had to, if you wanted to last longer than five minutes in the Family. This kid – well, he was about my age, but he could really act like a snot-nosed brat sometimes – he fancied himself a musician, but couldn't sing for shit. So he got a few of us musically-inclined guys to take up the slack for him. He wrote the songs, we'd perform, and he'd take all the credit. Put his own mug on the album cover, made up some  _nome de plume_... Huge Dildo or something stupid like that. But yeah, it was my voice. I did what I had to do to stay in favor. So what?"

Ellis smiled. "So I just wanted ta know," he said gently, and shifted to resume his work. "I'm guessin' ya liked music 'fore all that, though, or ya wouldn't'a got picked for it?"

Amazingly, Nick allowed the conversation to continue. "Yeah. Eighties shit as a kid, then the classics when I learned some taste. Sinatra, Crosby, that kinda stuff. And we sang in church." He snorted a sardonic little laugh. "I can probably still pull off the tenor line of  _Gloria in Excelsis_ , but don't tell Coach that."

The mechanic grinned, amused and gratified. The conman's responsiveness had him feeling interestingly warm and fuzzy inside. "What kinda church didja go to?"

"Catholic, Catholic, Catholic," Nick answered, shaking his head with a touch of venom that betrayed how he felt about the whole concept of religion. "I’m Italian, sport. It's basically mandatory."

"Why?"

The ex-hitman laughed again: a short, bitter bark. "Hell if I know," he said. "I was one of the flock for a long time, though. Not so much anymore."

Ellis thought about this for a moment. He was about to make like a two-year-old and ask "why" again when something gave under his fingers. There was an audible  _click_  as his wrench turned, sliding the heavy bolt back.

Nick moved fast. He snatched up his rifle from where it leaned against the wall and practically flowed into a combat stance. If anything lurking beyond the threshold had tried to launch a surprise attack, he'd have gunned it down before it had finished opening the door. But there was only silence.

Ellis left the picks in the lock and slowly reached for his own gun. He cradled it with one hand and took hold of the door's textured metal handle with the other, then cast a questioning look at his teammate. Nick, still covering the entrance, nodded. Ellis set his boots firmly underneath himself, took a steadying breath, and pulled.

The door scraped over uneven dirt as he drew it open, forming a thin pile of loose earth along its edge that traced out the arc of its sweep. Nick's flashlight beam cast a harsh light accusingly inside the room – less of a room, more of a largeish closet, really – but nothing moved to attack.

At first he had a little trouble figuring out just what he was looking at. It was a tightly-crammed mess of wires and boxes in various flat shades of grey and olive drab, equipment that seemed quite advanced initially, but upon closer inspection was revealed to have been thrown haphazardly together. Atop one of those depressingly featureless boxes, draped over the edge of a tiny table, was a grotesque figure in the putrid state of decay that indicated a little more than a week's time had passed since its death. The ex-hitman's trained eye noted a nine-mil on the ground and gore spatters on the filing cabinet behind the corpse, and concluded that the poor bastard had put a bullet in his mouth.  _Probably the smart thing to do_ , he considered grimly, and nudged the body with the tip of his rifle. It slithered off its cold metal folding chair and collapsed on the floor with a sick  _squelch_.

Ellis could practically  _feel_  the disgust roll off his partner. Neither of them quite registered the odor of rotting flesh, but the vile languidity with which the corpse had fallen was enough to trigger a wash of bile in both men's throats. Their imaginations supplied the fetid carrion-stench even better than reality could: almost sweet, but so laden with rancid amines and bacteria that their bodies rejected it reflexively. The mechanic coughed to keep from gagging, which of course didn't help at all; he had to resort to rapid swallowing to keep his dinner down. Just  _not looking_  at the corpse turned out to be the best idea.

Nick didn't seem to have the same kind of problem. He'd retrieved a general-issue fire blanket from a cabinet in the corner and was wiping down the now-unoccupied box, taking care to not get unpleasant fluids on his hands. The soldier's body had been inconveniently draped over a panel of switches and dials, an interface that looked remarkably like an old short-wave radio. That hunch was confirmed by the battered, duct-tape-bedecked microphone resting on the table beside the console.

He slowly straightened up and turned, deadpan, to look at Ellis. A wordless communication passed between them, an electric moment as neither quite dared to hope. Suddenly they both were scrambling to move things out of the way, picking up boxes to see behind them, nearly tripping over thick wires in their haste to follow them back -

" _Oh_  my  _gawd_  it's Christmas!" Ellis whooped, shoving aside what looked like a rack of obsolete servers. Just behind it, festooned with meticulously routed black and yellow cables, sat the most enormous array of batteries he'd ever seen. His trembling hands were all over them even before Nick had come into view, checking the plastic cases for acid leaks and the wiring for potential hazards.

"Has it got a charge?" the older man asked flatly. Ellis could tell without looking that he had his poker face on, trying not to get excited in case they couldn't get the communications setup working.

"Dunno, but the housin' looks intact," the mechanic answered, standing carefully so as not to unplug anything by accident. "Let's turn it on an' see..." He found the main junction and gingerly pushed the heavy plastic switch into the "on" position.

All around them, electronics beeped and blinked into sudden life. The server rack lit up all at once, with a unified chorus of chimes as the motherboards announced their functionality. Fans began to whirr, a vigorous crescendo that settled down to an expectant thrum as sensors confirmed that vital hardware wasn't overheating yet. The lightbulb in the other room came on, too, casting a harsh fluorescent glow through the door. Nick prodded the power button on the single desktop console, and was greeted a few moments later by the flat blue-and-grey of a Windows login screen.

 _Military_ , he thought, amused.  _Figures they'd still be using a thirteen-year-old operating system_.

"We oughta unplug whatever shit we don't need," Ellis chirped, moving to begin doing just that. "Save battery an' stuff."

His companion frowned thoughtfully at the monitor for a moment, then hit control-alt-delete to select "shut down" from a drop-down menu. "Yeah. Leave this one, though. Could be useful."

"Sure, sure," the mechanic agreed, maneuvering in the cramped space. It was like being inside a one-piece-missing rearrangement puzzle. "Gonna turn the radio on?"

"No, I'm gonna play Minesweeper," came the wry response. "Of course I'm gonna turn it on. But don't get your hopes up, fireball."

Ellis couldn't help it. He could feel the anticipation pounding in his chest, making his hands unsteady as they found switches to hit and plugs to pull. One by one the electronics died, green and red lights going dark, whirr of fans slowly quieting as the ensemble lost members. But the little room did not fall completely silent, because a haze of static burst from the radio as Nick fiddled with it. And astonishingly, under the white noise, they could hear the unmistakable cadences of several deep Southern accents.

_...sssshhhchchhhback inside'n' there ain't nobody now but wsscccchhhatchin'... ssshhhccckkCHSCH Roger Gator Six, standbsSSSHCCHHHver... Gator Two ta Base, whuts yer plan, over? ...sshhhhhcchhhr Two, keep watcchhhhdshhhh an' in the mornin when they come out we take 'em at gunpoiccchhhhshssssshhhcckk what they got, over... sschhcCCHHSSsshh Roger, Base, save some beer fer us, over... schhhhkksssshhh..._

The microphone in Nick's hand slowly fell as they listened, finger easing off the transmit button. Ellis met his eyes as the excitement slid right off their faces, falling to the ground like so many spent shell casings as the words they overheard struck home.

 _..._   _cchssshhhddchake sure y'all don' kill 'em 'fore ya knsshhhhhCSHHK useful, or ya won't git none, over..._

They were being hunted.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And that's as far as I got back in the day. Everything from this point on has been written in 2015 or later. Thanks for sticking with me!


	23. Chapter 23

“W… what do we do?” Ellis whispered, as though the people outside could hear him. His heart had taken up residence somewhere near his throat, and he trembled, teetering between fight and flight. Even as hopeful and optimistic as he was, he had not quite been prepared to hear the sound of another living human voice, let alone one that meant to do him harm. Forget the movies – it was inconceivable for survivors to turn on each other at a time like this. Wouldn’t everybody band together, and face the odds united?

 _Don’t go actin’ all surprised_ , said a nasty little voice in the back of his head. _The Army didn’t care who it was killin’, why would anybody else_?

Through the shock and disgust, he almost laughed – he was starting to sound like Nick.

The conman, for his part, understood their stalkers perfectly. After all, it was kill or be killed out here, and anyone with a treasure trove of supplies like the one their team carried was an automatic target. Rather than waste energy on fear, he started working the angles. How could they turn the situation to their advantage?

“Get into those files,” he ordered suddenly, pointing at the cabinet behind them and stalking back to the computer. “Find anything that could be useful – refugee rosters, bombing plans, location of supplies, that kinda shit. We need leverage.”

Ellis gave him a funny look, but obeyed promptly. The top two drawers were unlocked, so he skipped them, kneeling instead to examine the bottom one. He fetched the picks from where he’d left them in the door, but the new lock was too small, and they wouldn’t fit. He checked the desk drawers hopefully, but didn’t find the key. Heart sinking and bile rising, he squeezed his eyes shut, knowing what he had to do but fiercely wishing it wasn’t necessary.

He turned instead to the putrid corpse on the floor. At least its clothes were intact, if not the rest of it. _Don’t think about it, don’t think about it, yer fine, it’s just… mud, yeah, yer playin’ in the mud_ , he told himself, reaching gingerly for the dead soldier. Eyes half-closed protectively, he didn’t rummage so much as _squelch_ his way through the pockets until he found what he needed. As soon as he had the keyring he vigorously wiped his hands off on every clean bit of the fire blanket he could, dry heaving slightly as he did so.

Meanwhile, Nick had booted up the equipment again and was exploiting a vulnerability particular to Windows 98. After clicking his way through a convoluted series of menus, he accessed the system, wiped the old password, and made a new one. Once that was done he dove into the documents stored on the servers, and uncovered a treasure trove of information. He grinned, scrolling his way through dozens of files containing exactly the kind of things he’d told Ellis to look for.

“Jackpot,” he called over his shoulder. “You okay over there? Any luck?”

“Some,” Ellis answered. “I got reports, here, sayin’ how the Army’s doin’ so far, what cities they’ve blown off the map an’ such, but the newest one’s from a bit more’n a week ago. Prob’ly ‘round the same time this sonofabitch died.”

“Same deal for me, but there’s _plans_ on this thing. Shit that hasn’t happened yet, if the dates on ‘em are accurate.”

The southerner grinned. “Well, hell, man, that’s gold!”

“It’s something, all right,” Nick muttered. “Find something to write with.”

Ellis grabbed a pen and notebook from one of the desk drawers, and held them out for Nick. The older man transferred the files from the servers to the local hard drive and began to write, taking care with his terrible penmanship so that it would be legible for once. He copied out data from the screen, filling page after page with the locations, dates, and schedules he deemed most important. Ellis was starting to get dangerously bored by the time his lover was done.

“Okay,” Nick said, taking down one last number and flicking all the computers off again. “This is good. We can use this. Now let me think…”

He returned to the still-hissing radio and leaned intently over it, eyes shut in concentration. He turned the dial carefully, a millimeter at a time, and managed to clarify the signal. The team whose chatter he was intercepting didn’t say much else regarding their stakeout, but they did talk about other people. Survivors. A lot of them.

“Hot damn,” he whispered, then louder, said “I have an idea.”

Ellis peeked over his shoulder as Nick started to write again. It looked like the older man was making a list, each item headed by a strong dash on the left side of the page.

“Should we tell ‘em about this?” the mechanic asked quietly. “Ro an’ Coach, I mean?”

“Not yet,” Nick replied, still scribbling. “They’re still pretty pissed at me, and they’d just get in the way.”

The southerner raised an eyebrow. “Of what?”

“Negotiations.”

He fell silent for a few moments, pen briefly hovering just over the paper before adding a final item to his list. Then he started making a second one.

“This is the important shit they’ve said so far,” he said, tapping the first page with his free hand. “And _this_ is what you’re gonna say to ‘em. We gotta step careful if we want their help.”

Ellis cocked his head slightly sideways, confused. “Y’think they got any help to give us? An’ why’s it gotta be me talkin’ to ‘em? Yer way better with gettin’ shit outta people… When you wanna be, anyhow.”

The conman snorted a quick laugh. “I’m an outsider, kid. ‘One’a them damn Yankees,’” he said, mocking himself in an exaggerated accent. “These guys’re more likely to play nice with you, since you’re a fellow hick. No offense.”

That earned him an elbow to the ribs and a sarcastic glare. He winced, then continued.

“As for the help, check this out.” He handed over the notebook. “First of all, they’re organized, with patrols and a radio system. From the chatter, they’ve got some kind of… fortress, or something… close by, with electricity and running water, and it’s full of people. Not all fighters, either. One of ‘em mentioned farmers, even kids. They’re not just surviving, they’re _living_.”

Ellis read through Nick’s notes with only minor difficulty, and felt his stomach turn with both anxiety and hope.

“Well butter my butt an’ call me a biscuit,” he murmured absently. “An’ ya really think this’ll work?”

“The odds are pretty good, if they’ve got half a brain in their collective redneck heads.” Nick swiped a hand through his hair, smoothing back a few locks that had fallen into his eyes. “Just stick to the script and we should be fine.”

 _I’m counting on you, killer_ , he didn’t add aloud. The last thing Ellis needed was more pressure.

The mechanic composed himself, swallowing firmly and face taking on the determined expression he wore in only the most dire of circumstances. “I got this.”

He reached for the microphone, took a deep breath, and curled his fingers around the transmit button.

“H… Hello, Gator team, this is Survivor Outpost One, d’you copy? Over,” he read off from the page.

The chatter cut off abruptly. Ellis could imagine the people on the other end sitting stunned, perhaps whispering frantically to each other if they were in pairs. He let the silence continue for half a minute, then spoke again.

“Come in, Gator team, we got an offer for ya, over.”

Another pause, during which his nerves felt like they were about to snap. Then, finally, a response.

“Survivor Outpost One, this is Base. We copy. Speak yer piece, over.”

Ellis glanced at Nick, who nodded encouragingly. He looked to his notes once more. “Base, we got a lady with us plus an injured man. You got at least six folks out here meanin’ t’do us harm. We’re willin’ t’offer valuable information in exchange for safety, an’ some assistance. Uh, over.”

“What kinda information, over?”

“Location of a huge supply store, an’ the intel in this here facility, over.”

“Why should we believe y’got anythin’? Over.”

“Truce. Send one’a yer guys in t’see. They can be armed if ya want, but no funny business or we’ll blow everythin’ t’hell, over.”

As he eased off the mic Nick put a hand on his shoulder. “You’re doing great, ace,” he whispered. “Almost there.”

“How many folks ya got in there? Over.”

“Four. Three able-bodied, one needin’ medical attention, over.”

One more stretch of quiet, even more nerve-wracking than the others. Then, at last…

“Gator One, yer up. Outpost One, standby, over.”

A different voice, presumably the patrol leader, replied. “Roger that, Base. Over an’ out.”

Ellis let out a breath he didn’t know he’d been holding. Nick gave his arm one more squeeze.

“You did good, kid. Hide that notebook and keep listening. I’m gonna wake Ro up.”

The mechanic gave him a faint smile.

* * *

 

Rochelle slept fitfully. The pained groans and abnormally weak snores from Coach on the bunk below were worrying, but even when she’d worked past that and begun to drift off, other concerns and aggravations rose up to take its place.

In the fluid space of half-sleep she dwelt on Nick’s dangerous outburst. She’d long ago figured out that the conman’s default state was “angry,” but he’d been acting so different lately – at least since they’d left the flooded house – that she’d been starting to hope he might be changing. It had certainly seemed so for a little while, with all that cheerful banter and odd helpfulness he’d been displaying. He’d produced hardly any scathing remarks or furious assignments of blame when something went wrong; even his sarcasm was clearly intended as humor, not insult, and it was layered with a healthy amount of camaraderie, if not outright affection.

These things made tonight’s erratic behavior all the more worrying, but Rochelle had an unpleasant feeling that she knew its cause full well. Coach had hit the nail on the head back at the hunting lodge, seemingly so long ago: “them two” were starting to think more about protecting each other than the group at large. When viewed through that lens, Nick’s absurd action tonight made perfect sense. It had been a smoker that attacked Ellis back in Georgia, starting off the whole thing; since then, Nick had been taking it out on nearly every one they encountered, sniping them with a viciousness uncommon to even his hard features. It was that same viciousness that had caused him to crash their car, just to kill a smoker that might threaten Ellis’ life again. Putting it all together like that, it was crystal clear: Nick was obsessive about keeping Ellis safe in the near term, at the cost of keeping all of them safe in the long term. But it was similarly obvious that the lovesick idiot didn’t see it that way.

She sighed and turned over in her almost-sleep. That was gonna be a fun conversation to have. At least she had something of an idea of how to approach it now.

The last of her frustration thus reasoned away, she sank into a deep drowse that let her aching muscles go limp with relief…

Only to be wakened, what felt like mere moments later, by Nick. He had placed one surprisingly gentle hand on her arm and was shaking her softly.

“Hey, doll, sorry about before, we’ll talk later but there’s some serious shit we gotta deal with _now_.”

She’d grown used to his tells and the undercurrents of his voice, to some degree. Here, even half-awake, she could sense a trace of fear in his slightly rushed delivery and the subtle pull of his lips. It was enough to rapidly bring her to full attention.

“What’d you do now, suit?” she snapped quietly, swinging her legs off the bed to hop down. Coach moaned a little.

The conman ignored her jibe, reinforcing her concern. Instead he shoved her P90 into her hands, hastily filled her in on their situation, and positioned her inside the door to cover the courtyard. He retrieved Ellis, left a few of the papers they’d found with Rochelle, and took the mechanic out to open the gate.

The surrounding darkness seemed a lot more menacing now that they knew what was out there. They worked quickly to remove the barricade, but didn’t actually pull back the chain-link fence until a solitary figure approached with its hands up.

Gator One was a plain-looking man, sturdily built, with weathered skin and a harmless smile. He wore dark clothes and had an assault rifle slung across his back.

“I come in peace,” he said with congenial humor. “Y’all gonna let me in?”

The survivors hauled the gate aside, closing it again once their visitor had passed through. Ellis peered suspiciously at the shrubbery outside, but saw nothing. He shook his head and extended a hand, friendly smile coming naturally.

“Howdy. Name’s Ellis. This here’s Nick.”

“Dean,” the newcomer said, returning the handshake. “Where’s all this stuff yer lookin’ ta trade?”

“Over here, for starters,” Nick said, leading them to Toby. He gestured for Dean to look through the rear windows. “Food, fuel, medkits, and enough guns to start a war. This was all we could take. We can tell you where the rest is.”

“Well ain’t’chu the confident one, mister,” Dean chuckled, peering at the supplies. Nick’s smooth expression flickered with annoyance.

“There’s more,” Ellis said, nodding towards the structure. “C’mon in, an’ we’ll show ya.”

Dean seemed unimpressed by the documents Rochelle held, but his casual demeanor couldn’t fool Nick. A glimmer in his eyes, the way his grip tightened fractionally on the paper… The man was hooked.

When they brought him to the server room, he dropped all pretense. “Ho-lee sheeit,” he breathed, looking over the scene. “An’ y’all gonna turn it right on over?”

“Here’s the deal,” Nick said, adopting a confident posture. “Three-step process. We give you this paperwork right off the bat, you take us in for a while and see to our friend. When it’s obvious that we’re safe, I give you the password for that computer, and you get all the data you want. Later, we’ll move on, and I’ll tell you where the goods are.”

“We’ll pull our weight in yer crew, too,” Ellis offered. “I figure if y’all put us up while Coach is healin’ we may’s well help out.”

Nick cringed internally – that wasn’t what he’d had in mind, but it was on the table now and he couldn’t countermand it without looking weak. Instead he smirked, raising one eyebrow.

“Now, if these terms aren’t to your liking, we could just cruise right on through, no harm, no foul.” He let that sink in for a moment. Then his eyes hardened, and his tone grew icy. “But if you so much as _think_ of screwing us… I can come up with plenty of ways to make your life worse – or a hell of a lot shorter.”

He raised his gun and the others followed suit, afraid to break ranks despite being considerably shocked at Nick’s threat. Oddly, Dean did not seem fazed in the slightest. Instead, he smiled companionably at them.

“Don’t see why that’d be necessary,” he said. “This ain’t my call t’make, though. I gotta clear it with Base.”

Nick lowered his rifle slightly. “Go ahead.”

“Thank ya kindly. I’m gonna get my radio now, awright? Ain’t goin’ fer a gun or nothin’.” He slowly reached down and plucked the device from his belt, not breaking eye contact as he raised it to his lips.

“Come in, Base, this is Gator One, over.”

“Roger, Gator One, we read ya. What’s your status? Over.”

Dean relayed the message, just as casual as if he were reading off a grocery list. “…An’ frankly, sir, I’m pretty inclined to roll with it. They got plenty we can use, an’ a couple more sentries ain’t no bad thing, over.” He winked roguishly at his captors, still as cool as could be.

The people on the other end conferred with each other for a minute or two, then called back.

“We can deal. Gator team, escort those folks home. We’ll have Doc Calloway standin’ by. Over an’ out.”

There was a collective exhale, and all three weapons were holstered. Nick relaxed from his tough-guy stance and gave Dean a small but genuine smile. Rochelle’s was somewhat wider. Ellis broke out in a full grin as they left the cramped room for the more open area outside.

“Well, nice! Y’all ain’t half bad! Sorry ‘bout the scare an’ shit, y’all know how it is.”

“Fuck, we sure’s hell do,” Dean replied. His carefully measured demeanor changed into a more normal one, with communicative gestures and expressions that had been absent before. He put his radio away and laced his fingers behind his head, resting his arms in that position. “When Liberty Island went from militia headquarters t’zombie holdout, we had all kinds’a folks wantin’ t’join us. Some of ‘em were nothin’ but trouble, some were jus’ river leeches lookin’ fer a handout. Ya learn t’make lil’ arrangements pretty quick, situation like that.”

“Militia?” asked Rochelle, at the same time Ellis asked “Island?” Dean laughed, a throaty little chuckle that invited others to join in.

“Sure ‘nuff. Meanin’ no disrespect, ma’am, but you Yanks ain’t got the same spirit a’ liberty as us down South. Us in the Montgomery Militia took steps t’defend our freedoms, come the day that dictatorship in Washington fin’ly went too far. Our base was on a big ol’ island smack in the middle a’ the river. Turns out it works jus’ like we wanted.”

Rochelle seemed a little put off. Nick smirked at her expression, but brought the conversation back to more pressing matters.

“We can rejoice about the fall of fascism later. Let’s hurry up and get Coach some help.”

Things moved very quickly after that. Dean called in his team, sending one to collect the files and computer while the others stood guard over the open gate. Nick surreptitiously reclaimed his notebook from the desk and hid it in Ellis’ food bag, while Rochelle backed the car up to the door. It took all three survivors and Dean’s help to load the unconscious Coach inside. They could feel how hot his skin was, but there was no time to look under the bandage. Besides, they could imagine the wound all too easily.

Rochelle took the wheel. Gator team had pulled their vehicle out front: a Hummer with a cargo bed attached, unprofessionally painted a dark matte grey. There were a few scratches and dents, presumably souvenirs of battle, where the original yellow shone through.

As a show of both goodwill and mistrust, the two groups traded members for the journey. Ellis hopped excitedly into the SUV’s truck bed, while a no-nonsense black woman took Toby’s passenger seat up front next to Rochelle. Nick could think of a few things to say about that, but had enough sense to keep his mouth shut. Instead he slumped in the back seat, too worried for Coach to sulk about being denied shotgun. The old Georgian was a miserable wreck, more vulnerable than Nick had ever seen him and making pained whimpers that had Gator Three – Laquisha – glancing back with pity.

“That your dad?” she asked Rochelle. The driver nearly snorted, then looked thoughtful. A profound sorrow crept its way into the corners of her eyes.

“He might as well be,” she said quietly. And that put something of a damper on further conversation.

Toby limped along behind their guides, rattling a little in a way that meant Ellis really did need to take a look at her. The mechanic, visible through the windshield, was talking animatedly to another member of Gator team who was also in the cargo bed with him. Unsurprisingly, they seemed to be getting along like a house on fire; Ellis could make friends with anyone. The cold, calculating part of Nick’s mind noted that this was a very good thing: the more these strangers liked them, the more helpful and generous they’d be.

 _I guess I’ve gotta be a people person for a while longer_ , he thought irritably. Before he could work himself into a counterproductive funk, though, Coach released a particularly agonized moan. The sound pierced Nick’s self-absorbed cocoon, and he looked down at his teammate with anxious eyes.

 _For you, buddy, I’ll manage_.


	24. Chapter 24

Only a few minutes later the militia’s base came into view. It rose impressively from the middle of a wide river, surrounded by high cinderblock walls and a perimeter of barbed wire. A few sentries manned the battlements, sweeping spotlight beams back and forth along the shore. Ellis broke off his conversation with Gator Five to ogle, eyes wide and mouth falling open. Despite his wonder and excitement, his grip on his shotgun grew a little tighter.

Their two-car convoy rumbled over a sturdy bridge, more guards locking big corrugated-iron doors behind them. A second portal set into the wall swung open like the pearly gates of heaven, and the survivors passed awestruck from darkness into light.

The inside was structured like a military camp, with a wide dirt courtyard in front and barracks arrayed along the edges. Farther back – the place was at least five football fields wide, and twice that long – were what looked like greenhouses, chicken coops, and more comfortable living quarters. In the center of these was a stretch of grass, slightly trampled but green. A swing-set, of all things, stood on one side, with dirty furrows underneath that indicated heavy use. The whole was illuminated with big light stanchions of the sort one would find at a nighttime construction site.

All this registered only briefly with them before Gator team leaped into action. They parked by the side of the gate, next to a couple other pseudo-military SUVs, and Rochelle followed suit; Nick and Ellis jumped out of their respective vehicles and converged on Toby’s rear hatch. As they hauled it open several people jogged over, carrying a makeshift canvas-and-stick stretcher. Together they maneuvered Coach onto it, and he was borne rapidly away towards the closest building.

The others followed, too nervous to really look around yet. Inside the barracks was a crude medical facility, complete with an operating table, sink, and neat shelves of supplies close to hand. Three recuperating soldiers lay in a row of beds in the back, and two grim-faced women in aprons stood by, pulling on blue latex gloves. They stepped up to help transfer Coach onto the table.

“Doc Calloway, and Jamie, one’a the nurses.” One of the porters, his job done, pointed out which lady was which. “They’ll take care of yer guy, don’t’chu fret.”

“Thanks,” muttered Rochelle, eyes still fixed on Coach as the women began to work.

The three survivors winced, gasped, and grimaced respectively as Coach’s wound was revealed. Their paltry alcohol wipes hadn’t been enough; the flesh around the stitches on his calf was painfully swollen, and a thick white pus leaked viscously from the angry red lesion. His thigh, fortunately, seemed to be fine.

Jamie passed over a tiny pair of scissors and readied a clean white rag. Calloway cut open the stitches, and the two of them started cleaning out the gruesome mess inside. Rochelle turned away, unable to watch. Ellis and Nick could have stayed, but chose not to. Perhaps it was for the sake of Coach’s privacy; perhaps it was to support their teammate in her distress. Maybe it was just easier to wait outside and let the doctors get on with their work. Either way, they trailed back to the courtyard and sat dispiritedly in the dust by the door.

There were few people awake at this time of night, but those who were looked at them with something close to pity. Nick glanced at his friends and smirked ruefully; they made one hell of a picture.

The changes had been so gradual that he hadn’t really noticed, but compared to these new people, the three of them were barely distinguishable from the infected. As fit as Ellis was, his muscles were less… _buff_ , somehow, than they’d been before. Now he was more wiry and lean, like a wild animal. Rochelle’s curves weren’t quite so defined anymore, her hair was growing in all scraggly at the roots, and her face was lined with care. Nick himself had dropped weight, too. They all had slightly hollowed cheeks, ribs more visible than anyone’s really ought to be, and enough cuts and scrapes for them to forget what it was like not to hurt. And on top of everything, they were absolutely, impossibly dirty. Mud and grease were ground into their skin; blood and bile stained their tattered clothes. Even the homeless panhandlers Nick remembered from Kenmore Square were cleaner by a mile.

Altogether, they were an utterly pathetic bunch. _It’s a freakin’ miracle these trigger-happy wackos didn’t shoot us on sight_ , Nick mused, dropping his head back against the wall.

Rochelle, still exhausted and tapped out of emergency energy, slumped against Ellis and passed out in short order. He in turn rested his head on Nick’s shoulder, staring into space as the last hour’s stress caught up to him. The conman gently removed his lover’s cap and moved to plant a kiss in his sandy curls, but a nasty little thought froze him like a startled deer.

_We can’t let them see._

Coach might as well be waving a rainbow flag compared to the attitude these right-wing extremists would have. If they noticed that Nick and Ellis were an item, all the goodwill their team was trying to build would result in precisely jack shit.

A cold anger clenched his stomach. Instead of showing affection he merely placed the grubby hat into Ellis’ lap, and spoke to him in a whisper.

“Hey, El.”

“Hmm?” the mechanic responded vacantly.

“We can’t be together while we’re here,” Nick muttered. “These nutjobs won’t take kindly to a gay couple running around their little bastion of righteousness.”

Ellis didn’t react as indignantly as the ex-con had expected. Rather, he closed his eyes with a sadly furrowed brow, and sat up carefully to avoid waking Rochelle.

“I hadn’t thought of that, but yer prob’ly right,” he sighed. “This sucks.”

“Yup.” Nick scooched a careful few inches away from him. “I’m sorry.”

“It ain’t nothin’,” Ellis said quietly. “We ain’t gonna be here long anyhow.”

“Yeah.”

They waited in silence for at least an hour. Another patrol returned and the battlement watch had changed before Jamie poked her head out from the medbay. Nick and Ellis jerked to attention so fast that Rochelle woke up with a finger on the trigger of her rifle.

“Easy,” the mechanic told her, wrapping an arm around her shoulders. She put the gun down and rubbed at her eyes.

“What’s the news?” Nick asked, levering himself off the ground. Jamie gave him a tired smile.

“It’s a damn good thing y’all got him here when ya did,” she said. “He’s gotta stay under observation a couple’a days, take antibiotics, rest. The infection oughta not come back, God willin’.”

“Can we see him?” Rochelle stood with Ellis’ help, voice weak after three rude awakenings from already scant sleep. The nurse shrugged slowly, tilting her head in a noncommittal gesture.

“He ain’t exactly a lively one, but if ya wanna, sure.”

The three survivors followed her into the barracks. Doc Calloway, washing her hands off in the sink, nodded briskly at them; they smiled cautiously back.

Coach lay in a formerly empty cot, still unconscious, but with a much healthier tone to his skin. His eyes were less pinched, as well, and he wasn’t making those heart-wrenching noises of pain anymore. Knots of anxiety released from under their hearts.

“He gonna walk any time soon?” Ellis asked in a hushed voice. The doctor came over to them, slinging a small towel over her shoulder.

“Not on his own fer a couple weeks, at _least_ ,” she answered, raising one stern eyebrow. “He was lucky, though. All his tendons’re intact an’ as far as these things go it really ain’t that deep. The fever was the worst of it, I reckon. Any hotter an’ I dunno if he’d’a made it.”

“Thanks, doc,” Nick said quietly. He regarded Coach’s prone form, shaken; if their argument had been his last interaction with the man, he didn’t think he’d be able to forgive himself.

After a moment of thoughtful silence, Jamie forced a smile. “Let’s get all y’all squared away, now. I think yer gonna be in bunk four, ma’am, and you fellers are bunk five.”

That startled them.

“Uh,” Rochelle began, looking awkward and a little scared. “I’d really rather stay with…”

“We got rules, ma’am,” the doctor said with a frown. “Ain’t no co-ed dorms ‘cept for married folk. Period.”

There was a fraction of a second in which an angry shock took hold of all three survivors. They couldn’t imagine being separated like that; even during solo watches, none of them had been truly isolated from the others in all the time since they’d met. Rochelle felt an inexplicable terror seize her at the prospect of being alone amongst strangers, and the way her weary eyes flew open put her teammates in more or less a killing mood.

“The hell there aren’t,” snapped Nick, closing ranks to stand at Ellis’ side. “I thought you guys were all about freedom, yeah? What kinda freedom is this?”

“We ain’t separatin’,” Ellis said flatly, taking Rochelle’s hand. She clutched it desperately, as though afraid he’d disappear. “Point a’ fact, if I had my druthers I wouldn’t be leavin’ Coach alone, neither.”

Jamie backed up a step, clearly wanting to stay out of it. The doctor twisted her mouth in dissatisfaction and crossed her arms aggressively.

“This man is a patient under my care an’ I won’t have y’all in here gettin’ in the way,” she said with cold authority. “As fer the rules, they’re outta my hands. Take it up with Susanne if y’all feel like arguin’.”

They matched her glare for glare for a tense moment until Ellis sighed and nudged Nick’s arm. “It ain’t worth gettin’ mad here, this ain’t her fault,” the mechanic muttered. “She’s bein’ good t’us already. Save it.”

The northerner breathed deep and schooled his face into a polite, apologetic expression. “I’m sorry, ma’am,” he said, in the smooth tone that almost always got him what he wanted. “It’s been rough out there and we’re… ah, a little co-dependent after all we’ve been through. Who’s Susanne, and where can we find her?”

Calloway still looked disgruntled, but some of the steel left her voice. “Yer a troublemaker, ain’t’cha, slick?”

“Not when I can help it,” the conman answered, smirking wryly. Ellis stifled disbelieving laughter, turning it into a cough instead.

“Susanne’s mayor, more or less," Jamie piped up cautiously. "She’s got an office ‘cross the way, but she’s prob’ly headin’ t’sleep by now. All y’all really oughta wait ‘til mornin’ t’bug her.”

Rochelle yawned, fear-adrenaline only enough for a minute of alertness. The strong part of her noted vaguely that if she didn’t get to bed ASAP she’d likely keel over. “Can we… can we just… for one night? Please?” She almost whimpered, leaning more heavily on Ellis. He passed his gun to Nick and changed his grip to support her with an arm around her waist.

“We’ll sleep in our car,” he said, still on the defensive but not wanting to cause more of a problem than they had already. “Ain’t gonna break the rules if we ain’t in one’a yer dorms. Thank y’kindly again, doc, for takin’ care a’ Coach. Means a lot.”

Where Nick’s con-artist tactics had failed, Rochelle’s distress and Ellis’ down-home honesty did the trick. Calloway smiled thinly at them and let her arms fall to her sides.

“I reckon y’all got a point there. Fine… Check in bunk one for a couple pillows, if y’want ‘em.”

“Thanks,” Ellis said once more. “Nick, you wanna deal with that? I kinda got my hands full, here.”

The northerner snorted in amusement. “Yeah. Meet you at the car.”

When they left the building Ellis bent to sweep Rochelle up in his arms, bridal-style. Her rifle dangled awkwardly from its strap, but he ignored both it and her halfhearted protest to carry her to their car. The rear hatch was conveniently still open; he helped her lie down in the same place Coach had been before. She was asleep almost instantly.

The mechanic wasn’t exactly tired yet, having only been awake since sunset, and still edgy at being separated from his older countryman. His instinct was to be on guard, and he caught himself raising Rochelle's gun a couple of times when another living person crossed into his field of vision. It really didn’t help that most of Liberty Island’s residents wore dark or camouflage clothing, seeming to be bloodstained infected even in the light. Nick, on the other hand, stood out, with an armful of bright white pillows that showed up exactly how filthy his jacket was. Ellis put a finger to his lips as the conman approached.

“She’s out cold,” he murmured, taking a pillow and opening the back door to gently nudge it under Rochelle’s head.

Nick smiled bitterly. “I’m glad we didn’t have to leave her alone. Ya done good, ace.”

“Heh. I ain’t the one talked our way outta gettin’ ambushed.”

“Well, technically, you did the talking…”

“’M serious, Nick. We wouldn’t be here if it wasn’t for you.”

Ellis took his bag from their pile of supplies and they closed the car doors as quietly as they could. They slumped to the ground once more, each leaning against a wheel to sit in silence. The distance between them seemed achingly wide.

Through force of will they managed to stop jumping at every movement and sound. As they gradually settled down they sank into absent thought, trying to adjust to their new situation.

Ellis didn’t know what to feel about the discovery of Liberty Island. On the one hand, he was wildly joyful about it: they weren’t alone! These people had survived, and that meant others might have as well – his family, Rochelle’s, Coach’s, they all had a chance. Maybe the Army had been successful at quarantining the plague, and society was still standing in the west. Maybe they really could go home.

But he remembered exactly _how_ the Army had tried to keep the Flu from spreading, and it made him shiver. He couldn’t bear the thought of being killed while his mother and sister survived, never getting to be all together again. It was almost as bad as the notion of finding out that they were dead – almost, but not quite. The bile rose in his throat and he quickly dragged his mind away from that dangerous idea.

The other thing that curbed his enthusiasm about the situation was having to hide his relationship with Nick. He was absolutely desperate for comfort and wanted nothing more than to curl up somewhere safe together like they’d done so long ago. But the real kicker was the realization that, contrary to his earlier fears, there were in fact people left to stand up on Sundays and tell him his love was wrong.

His heart skipped a beat.

Cautiously, disbelievingly, Ellis turned his head to look at Nick, and wasn’t at all surprised to find Nick looking back at him. He slowly let his eyes drag down the conman’s body, taking everything in: the dirty grey jacket, and blue shirt gone purple with blood; nimble hands with rings still inexplicably shining through; strong legs in mud-caked jeans stretched lazily on the ground. And he brought his gaze back up, to that haggard but undaunted face, to those weary green eyes that went soft as they met his own. He thought of everything they’d shared, and discovered that he wanted to share everything else, too – maybe for the rest of his life.

“I love you.”

The words came out before he had a chance to think about it, but for once he didn’t immediately feel the need to un-say them. Instead a strange calm suffused him, as though he’d fulfilled some great purpose and was able to rest at last.

Nick went absolutely still.

He didn’t freeze in shock or fear… No, this was different. The only thing he could compare it to was the instant before a kill, when the world seemed to hold its breath and his mind, body, and soul were all perfectly in tune. If he’d had his sniper rifle, he could’ve shot a hummingbird out of the sky.

Suddenly an awful lot of things clicked into place. On some level, he supposed, he’d known it for a while, but hadn’t been able to face it. Now, in the space of a heartbeat, it all seemed crystal clear…

But so did the sound of the fortress gate opening as another patrol came in for the night. Nick found himself inches from Ellis’ face, and barely managed to scramble away before a bright headlight beam swept over them.

“Dammit, Ellis,” he sighed, a bittersweet smile on his lips. “You never did have any sense of timing.”

“Guess not,” the southerner conceded, still floating on a haze of serenity. He hadn’t expected anything in return – to be fair, he hadn’t planned to drop that particular bomb in the first place – but the look on Nick’s face had been answer enough.

Voices drifted over to them from the newly parked vehicle. It made a total of six, and from the chatter was apparently the last scouting party of the night. They listened to people unloading cargo for a few minutes, until a final exchange marked the end of the activity.

“We got a full house, Sarge.”

“Roger. Lock ‘er up an’ lights out.”

The great doors to the compound swung ponderously shut once more, heavy bolts sliding into place with solid finality. There was the sound of retreating footsteps, and a faint series of plastic _clacks_. With each one another set of lamps went out, leaving the area mercifully dark. Only subtle illumination remained along the paths, stairs, and walkways, and of course the great searchlights on the battlements did not sleep.

As their eyes adjusted, Nick and Ellis began to see the stars, glittering with just a little more warmth tonight. The waning crescent moon was barely peeking over the eastern wall, its glow hardly enough to be seen. Their side of the car was cloaked entirely in shadow now, a shroud that hid them from all view. Gradually the air became quiet, peace only enhanced by the faint whisper of their breathing. Nick waited until he was absolutely sure there was no one else around, then slid back across the dirt to Ellis’ side.

He raised a hand to his lover’s cheek, prompting the younger man to turn slightly and nuzzle into his palm. Nick rested their foreheads together and closed his eyes tight.

“Ellis, I…” he began, voice low and hoarse. The mechanic put a finger to his lips.

“You don’t gotta say nothin’,” he murmured. Nick gently pulled the mechanic’s hand away, feeling an intense need to speak.

“No, I gotta say this.” He trembled with the weight of unfamiliar emotion, scared despite the proof of Ellis’ acceptance. He swallowed thickly, fighting past his years of guile and treachery to allow his weakness to show. It was easy, shockingly so, like falling through a door that had been closed all his life; and as he gave in to raw honesty, another clinging layer of his past fell away.

“You were right, before, about me always keeping stuff hidden, and you know what, that was shitty of me. Everything I do is shitty, even when I’m trying not to be…”

“Nick…”

“Look, kid, I’m sorry...” He almost choked, just this side of tears. “I am so, so sorry, for every fucked-up, asshole thing I’ve done to you, every damn secret I’ve kept, all the crap I’ve put you through. God, you didn’t deserve it, and there’s no way in hell I deserve you -”

Ellis cut him off with a sudden, fervent kiss. He knew how difficult it must be for Nick to say these things, how much the man cared for him to even try. It was almost better than simple repetition of the powerful three-word phrase; this was deeper somehow, more meaningful, like he was being entrusted with something rare and precious. It set a fire in his heart that put every other emotion to shame, as if he’d been locked in a cell for years and only now had been released into the sun.

“It’s okay, Nick,” Ellis whispered breathlessly as he pulled back. “It’s okay. I’m here.”

Nick made a tiny noise of longing deep in his chest and claimed his partner’s lips once more, unwilling to be separated for more than an instant. He curled his right hand around the back of Ellis’ head, digging his fingers into the thick curls as though holding on for dear life. His lover drew him even closer, slipping an arm around his waist and bringing their bodies flush against one another. Their kiss carried only the barest edge of desperation, and none of the urgency they typically felt while under threat by the undead. Here, safe inside the bastion of Liberty Island, they let down their guard and focused entirely on each other.

It was slow, passionate, and intensely wonderful. They teased gently at each other’s lips for a long while, skin like warm silk that made them shiver deliciously. Gradually their mouths fell a little farther open, letting their tongues brush and twine together. Ellis let out a quiet moan and Nick answered; the need to get even closer was becoming almost painful.

The younger man jumped a little as Nick’s free hand slipped under his shirt. “Mmh… Wh…” He made space enough to speak. “What’re you doin’?” he panted, face flushed.

“I need you,” Nick replied huskily. “There’s no one here to see, El, please…”

Ellis worried at his own kiss-swollen lip, looking around nervously. Their hiding place was deep in shadow, and they did seem to be utterly alone; the sentries on the walls were focused outside, and there was nobody else in the courtyard after lights-out. It was probably an idiotic idea, but the tone of Nick’s voice and the pleading tension in his fingers was sending a honeyed warmth down through Ellis’ belly.

“We gotta be quiet,” he whispered.

Nick did not respond aloud. Instead he shifted, inviting Ellis to touch him. The younger man complied, pushing himself up to swing a leg over his partner and straddle his lap. He nipped gently along the side of Nick’s neck, making the northerner inhale sharply and tip his head back against the car door. At the same time Ellis trailed his hands down the conman’s sides, kneading slightly at his waist before tugging the blue dress shirt out from under the waistband of his jeans.

When skin met skin their movements took on a slightly frantic quality. Ellis fumbled Nick’s belt open while Nick tackled the tied-up sleeves of Ellis’ coveralls. The mechanic started to push the stiff blue fabric off; but to his surprise, his partner held him back.

The older man let his suit jacket fall to the ground, raised his hips, and shimmied out of his pants. Ellis, amazed, moved out of the way. Together they clumsily removed one of his boots and the corresponding leg of his jeans, leaving Nick lying on his coat, half-exposed with his cock resting proudly against his abs. He scrabbled for the backpack, still trying to kiss every part of Ellis he could reach.

“N… Nick, are ya…?”

“Yes,” his lover murmured, handing over a condom and the last of their lube.

Ellis put the condom aside for the moment, and stopped kissing Nick just long enough to slick up his trembling fingers. He didn’t even register the strange and unpleasant sensation that had bothered him last time, and prepared his partner with all the gentleness his calloused hands could muster. Nick arched, hissing slightly; Ellis distracted him with caresses and meaningless whispers, catching his small sounds of discomfort with deep, passionate kisses.

Despite the slight pain, Nick had no doubts. He just went with what was right, connected to the moment at a level more fundamental than thought. All he wanted was to hold Ellis close, give himself over, show without words the devotion he’d sworn. He tangled his hands in his lover’s hair, letting his body relax to be as yielding as the rest of him felt.

Ellis withdrew to get himself ready, and lifted Nick’s bare leg over his shoulder for a better angle. Slowly, reverently, he guided himself into place, eyes fixed on his partner’s expression as the two of them became one.

He shivered as Nick’s warm flesh welcomed him, felt an unbearable rapture at the look of bliss on his lover’s face. Ellis moved gently, carefully pulling back before pushing in just a little bit more, using every ounce of self-control not to moan aloud. At last he was as deep as he could possibly go; he paused, breathing raggedly, letting the feeling settle. Then he rolled his hips, beginning a languid rhythm that filled his head with a soft glow.

Nick held tight to Ellis’ free arm, dust welling up between the fingers of his other hand as he clutched at the ground. He rested his head against the dirt, biting his lip to keep from making a sound. The fullness, the friction, the subtle waves of pleasure as Ellis brushed against that spot deep inside; it all combined with the pure joy of their union, the undeniable _rightness_ of it. The sensation was overwhelming, and he ached longingly even as it flooded his entire being.

They moved together in a way they never had before. There was no urgent desperation like their first time, none of the primal aggression there’d been in the car. This was _clean_ somehow, intimate... even spiritual.

Gradually Ellis picked up his pace, motions still fluid rather than harsh. A little extra surge at the end of each push had Nick struggling to keep quiet, rocking back against each thrust to increase the power of the feeling. The warmth in his bones grew stronger, filling him with a pulsing heat that made him tremble. The flames only got hotter as Ellis moved a hand down to stroke him to completion, building a fire within that swept him up and threw him into a blinding light. He choked back an exultant cry as his body arched in ecstasy, unable to breathe through the sheer intensity of it all.

Ellis followed him over the brink, bursting with a heavenly force, heart swollen with starlight and an aurora of pure bliss wavering before his eyes. He poured himself out into Nick, wishing he could give even more, gasping helplessly as he lost himself to the endless dark.

How long they remained there, shuddering with aftershocks, was impossible to tell. Time had no meaning for them until their awareness came crawling back, whispering that it was dangerous to stay like this here. Ellis shuffled backwards on his knees, catching his breath a little more before starting to clean himself off. Nick sat up with a muffled noise of effort and did the same, wiping his shirt down and pulling his jeans back on. The process felt strange, unworthy to follow the glory they’d just experienced; but it was necessary, so they hid all signs of their union and let silence reign once more. They shared one more heated kiss, and reluctantly crawled into the car for the night.

In the morning Rochelle found them asleep in the front seats, hands limply intertwined across the gearshift.


	25. Chapter 25

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Content warning: the characters are going to be showing symptoms of PTSD more severely from now on. In this chapter, one experiences a dissociative fugue. If that content is troubling to you, you may want to skip to the next chapter.

Liberty Island rose with the sun. By the time Ellis, Nick, and Rochelle had stretched out their sleep-knotted muscles, the settlement was a hive of activity. One of the six Hummers was gone already, and two other teams were preparing to leave. A motley handful of teenagers drilled with machetes under a stern-looking man’s watchful eye; slightly farther down the courtyard, a small company of archers was having target practice. Beyond them, more people went about various tasks: carrying equipment from one place to another, repairing what looked like solar panels on the roofs of the barracks, tending to the gardens. A few had dragged tables outside and were chatting over craftwork: mending clothes, sharpening blades, and even fletching arrows. Steam rose from one of the largest buildings – a kitchen, judging by the smell – and a worrying plume of black smoke was visible coming from a far back corner of the compound. None of the locals seemed to spare a thought for it, but the survivors were at a loss as to what it could be.

They were standing by the car, staring around awkwardly, when an androgynous-looking youth carrying a large duffel bag jogged lightly over to them.

“Well hey, y’all must be the new folks Sarge was talkin’ about! Name’s Jesse, I’m supposed to show you around.”

Jesse was about Ellis’ size, with short blond hair and a slim but muscular build. A lilting Texan accent suggested that their new guide was of the female persuasion. She grinned at them and shook hands all around as they introduced themselves. Her smile was infectious.

“You wouldn’t know where a shower is, would you?” Nick asked sheepishly, acutely aware of how filthy he was in the face of Jesse’s crisp tan fatigues.

“Absolutely,” she chirped, and waved for them to follow. “I’ve got some new clothes for you, too. Leave your old ones with me and I’ll get rid of ‘em.”

“Uhh,” Ellis said hesitantly. “You got laundry instead?”

Jesse gave him an odd look. “Don’t see why you’d wanna hang on to those rags, but yeah.”

Rochelle explained how attached they were to their colors while they skirted the training grounds and approached one of the buildings. It had the standard stick-figure-in-a-dress insignia painted above the door. Jesse stopped and pulled two mismatched sets of garments from her bag, offering them to Nick and Ellis.

“Here ya go, fellas, yours is just across the way. Try not to waste water.”

The men glanced at Rochelle, wary of splitting up. She smiled reassuringly.

“Go on, boys. I’ll be fine.”

They continued to meet her eyes, not sure it was a good idea, but the call of the shower was irresistible. They grimaced in tandem, and reluctantly turned away.

Jesse was looking at her with a sympathetic expression. “Y’all been runnin’ together for a while, huh? Got a little separation anxiety?”

Rochelle blinked. She shook her head ruefully and found herself confiding in her young guide; something about Jesse felt safe and inviting. “We haven’t really been apart in over a month, so not being able to see them makes me nervous. Honestly, even leaving Coach in the hospital is scary.”

“Is one of them your man?” Jesse asked casually.

Rochelle stopped dead in the doorway, stared at her, and doubled over in hysterics.

“It was just a question,” the young Texan said with a lopsided grin. Rochelle was too busy laughing to notice the spark of hope in her eyes.

She’d gotten curious looks from several passing people before she managed to catch her breath. She straightened up wiping tears from her cheeks, still cackling in small bursts as the absurdity of the idea refreshed itself in her mind.

“Yeah, no,” she said with finality, getting herself under control. Jesse patted her on the back.

“All right, point taken. Let’s get you cleaned up.”

Inside was an honest-to-goodness locker room. Past a modesty corner were rows of cubbies and benches; behind that, what looked like toilet stalls. The floor was smooth concrete, and the place was currently empty, save for the two of them. What caught Rochelle’s eye, though, were the communal showerheads along the back wall.

“Here,” Jesse said, offering a towel and patchwork cloth sack taken from baskets by the door. “Dump your old clothes in the bag, I’ll take ‘em to the wash later.”

Rochelle sighed. “I think you can throw away most of my stuff, actually. It’s just the shirt I’d like to keep, unless you have something else in bright pink.”

“I’ll check.” The Texan held the bag open and politely averted her eyes while Rochelle stripped down.

The journalist noticed, and gave a gentle, amused snort. “Thanks for the effort, but I don’t have much dignity left to protect. Don’t worry about it.”

Jesse still didn’t stare, but stopped looking quite so pointedly at the wall. “Do you want me to go deal with the quartermaster now, or stay so you’re not alone in here?”

Rochelle paused with her shirt half-over her head. Her heart fluttered in fear and her throat clenched; she had the distinct feeling she’d have a full-blown panic attack if Jesse left.

“I… Yeah.” She finished dragging the fabric off and tossed it in the bag. “Some company would be nice.”

In short order her bra, underwear, and socks were gone, her gun was on the floor, and she was in absolute heaven. The shower was _hot_ , and Rochelle could feel the bliss sinking into her bones like magic. For a minute she just stood there worshipfully, letting the water pound on her skin, until Jesse coughed gently to get her attention.

“We try not to use too much water,” she said, somewhat apologetically. “When you’re not actually rinsing off, pull this lil’ stopper here to cut the flow.” She demonstrated. Rochelle looked heartbroken.

“Okay,” she sighed, and reached for a bar of soap.

Then there was the problem of where to start. Every inch of her screamed to be clean, but after a moment’s hesitation she decided that her hair felt the most disgusting. She reached up a hand to deal with it – and touched a tangled, scraggly mess too dense for her fingers to work through. She couldn’t even get her ponytail down.

“Ugh,” she muttered darkly. A thick resentment gathered in her stomach, and she glanced over to where Jesse sat. The Texan was idly running her thumb along the blade of a large Bowie knife, but looked up under Rochelle’s gaze.

“Somethin’ wrong, Ro?”

“Can I borrow that?”

A moment later she stood before a mirror, raised the weapon, and started cutting her hair off. It was too matted to fall in individual locks; as the razor-sharp steel sliced through, she had to peel back the whole thing like a scab. Jesse helped near the end, freeing Rochelle’s neck from the heavy burden it carried. At last, it was gone, and Rochelle stood a little straighter, with barely an inch of roughly chopped fuzz left on her head. She regarded her reflection with something like awe, seeing what looked like a whole different person.

“I haven’t gone natural in years,” she murmured, gently touching her tight new curls. “The network discouraged black hair on camera, for some reason.”

“You look nice,” Jesse said quietly, disposing of the shorn mess in a nearby garbage can. “We can tidy it up with a pair of scissors later, if you want.”

“Okay,” Rochelle replied absently, still captivated by her own appearance. A small part of her couldn’t believe what she’d just done, and she touched her head again to make sure it was real. It felt like she’d shed something of herself, left it behind as part of some profound metamorphosis. A subtle shiver rippled through her.

Jesse let her stare for a few moments more, then coughed politely. “Uh, so, you wanted a shower…?”

The journalist blinked, and realized that she was standing buck naked in front of the mirror, dripping grime on the floor. The desperate craving to be clean took hold again.

With a weight quite literally off her mind, Rochelle stepped back under the showerhead and indulged in another few seconds of rapture before the real work began. She took hold of the soap and rolled it between her hands, trying to work up a lather. Every part of her was so filthy that it took a while for bubbles to form. Jesse gave her a rough washcloth to scrub with, and even helped to do her back, but despite the assistance it took three iterations of vigorous scouring to let the true mahogany tone of her skin shine through.

As she rinsed for the final time, and the last of the greyish-brown water ran clear, she could feel more than just dirt washing off. Like her hair, the clinging muck of the apocalypse fell away to leave a slightly different woman behind. She was hard, resilient, able to hold her own against a world gone mad; but inside something was hurt, and now she was out of step with normality. In becoming a creature designed for survival, she had lost some of what it took to _live_.

The realization settled as an ache below her heart. What was it Nick had said? _There’s no way in hell I can go back to what I was_. Rochelle heard his voice like an echo in the back of her mind, heavy with truth. Memories of her family flickered before her eyes, no longer bittersweet or comforting, but rather a cruel reminder of what she might never have again. If they were even alive, if she got to see them, would she really _be_ there? How much of herself would she have lost on the battlefield, rotting amongst the corpses that paved her way?

She must have gone entirely into her own head, because suddenly she noticed a cool hand on her face. Jesse had drawn her away and wrapped the towel around her shoulders, looking intently into her eyes with an expression of acute concern.

“Ro? Come back, girl. Are you okay?”

She blinked, unable to answer. The agony must have shown on her face, because in a heartbeat Jesse was grounding her in a warm, gentle hug.

“It’s all right. I’m here, you’re here… Your boys are here, you wanna see ‘em? We can go see ‘em, yeah?”

Rochelle must have nodded, but she wasn’t totally aware of it. The world felt like an illusion, somehow… or maybe she was the one who wasn’t real. She went through the motions of drying off and getting dressed, slipping on the three-sizes-too-big boots as if in a dream. Jesse guided her out of the building and across the thoroughfare, to the men’s locker room. Nick and Ellis apparently weren’t done yet.

“Can you stay here for a minute, Rochelle?” the Texan asked gently, speaking as though to a young child. “I’m just gonna get your friends, okay? I’ll be right back. Just stay here by the door, can you do that for me?”

The journalist didn’t actually reply, just stood and stared into space. Jesse furrowed her brow anxiously, not wanting to leave her alone but knowing in her gut that her team was the only thing that could help. She squeezed Rochelle’s shoulder and strode purposefully into the building.

It was identical to the one across the way, and similarly empty – except for Nick and Ellis, clean and half-dressed, sitting on a bench and leaning into a gentle kiss. They didn’t notice Jesse approach until she awkwardly cleared her throat; then they jumped like electrocuted cats.

“It’s okay,” she said hastily, preempting whatever shocked or furious exclamations they might make. “We just need you outside, soon’s you can.”

“I… wh…?” Ellis stammered. His cheeks were a terrified white.

“What are you doing in here? This is the men’s room,” Nick demanded, concealing his racing heart with reflexive, hollow anger. Jesse shrugged.

“Yeah. So what?”

“So?” Nick repeated sarcastically, gesturing to indicate her whole body. “Do I have to state the obvious?”

She rolled her eyes. “It ain’t so obvious to me, slick. Listen, we can talk later, but right now Rochelle needs some help.”

“What? Where?” Both men surged to their feet, all embarrassment forgotten.

“By the door. I think she’s havin’ trouble adjus – ”

She hadn’t finished explaining before they were gone. She quickly gathered up their guns, clean shirts, and dirty laundry, then followed.

Rochelle was right where Jesse had left her, but Ellis was there now, too, looking into her face and speaking in a soothing tone.

“Hey. We’re gonna make this right. Ro, look at me... Yer gonna be okay.”

“Is there somewhere private we could sit for a while?” Nick muttered to Jesse, voice imperceptibly strained. She nodded, not taking her eyes from Rochelle.

“Dorms’ll be pretty much empty. You can come in durin’ the day.”

Rochelle seemed to be responding to Ellis’ care. Together, the men got her to follow Jesse into the nearest barracks, and had her sit down on the first available bed. She was starting to breathe a little easier in the presence of her teammates, and her pupils weren’t blown up quite so alarmingly wide anymore.

“How’re you feeling, sweetheart?” Nick murmured, sitting on one side of her while Ellis took the other. “Talk to me.”

“I… I don’t know what happened,” Rochelle said vaguely, flexing a hand in front of her face. “I feel… fuzzy.”

“Well, you kind of are,” the conman quipped, gently touching his teammate’s new hair. Jesse and Ellis snorted; to their surprise, it got a smile out of Rochelle, too.

“Yeah. Sorry.”

Ellis’ hand on her back and Nick’s solid warmth at her side felt real in a way that helped her come back to herself. She focused on breathing, deep and slow, until her mind and body got back on the same page. At last she could raise her head and understand where she was, taking in the rows of beds and personal lockers, inhaling a strange scent – no, it was an _absence_ of scent, a lack of the cloying stench of death. She couldn’t quite process it yet, but it was something new and present to cling to.

The other new and present thing in sight was Jesse, slouched by the door and looking awkward. Rochelle shook her head to clear it, and rubbed her eyes vigorously.

“I’m okay,” she said, in a stronger voice. “Sorry about that.”

“Ain’t no call for sorry,” Ellis dismissed. “We’re just worried about'chu.”

“Thanks, guys.” She sat up a little straighter. “And thank you, Jesse. I don’t think I – ”

“Ain’t nothin’,” the Texan interrupted gruffly, in a way that Nick could tell was meant to mask affection. “You’ve been through a lot. My brother gets like that sometimes… he was in Iraq.”

“Oh.”

With the danger passed, Nick gave Jesse a cautious look. It carried fear and curiosity in equal measure, along with a touch of pleading. Inside he was berating himself for taking the risk of kissing Ellis; he should’ve known someone would walk in on them. The ease with which Jesse had dismissed it gave him hope, but he hadn’t gotten this far in life by assuming everything was okay all the time.

“So…” he let the word hang in the air, questioning. Ellis, picking up on the change in the atmosphere, glanced up with a blush spreading over the scarred bridge of his nose.

Jesse shook her head slowly and pushed away from the wall to sit cross-legged on the floor in front of them. She propped her elbows on her knees and rested her chin in her hands, face gentle.

“Your secret’s safe with me, boys,” she said with a tiny smile. “But I think I’m the only one here that oughta know.”

“’Preciate it,” Ellis mumbled, pulling the brim of his damp hat – he’d washed it himself, in the shower – down to hide his eyes.

“What makes you so cool with it?” Nick asked, genuinely curious. “I was expecting fire and brimstone.”

Jesse grinned wryly. “I’m from Austin,” she answered. “We’re a lot more liberal there. I was in the middle of my Master’s at Alabama State when shit hit the fan.”

“What were you getting your degree in?” Rochelle asked. The Texan’s grey eyes flickered to her, gaze a little warmer than it had been for Nick.

“Social services,” she said. “Helpin’ kids get outta bad situations, counselin’ folks who got hooked on drugs, that kinda thing.”

Ellis smiled, liking her more and more. “That’s awful good of ya,” he said. “I bet'cher gonna have plenty a' work when this whole apocalypse thing is over.”

Jesse shyly inspected her boots. “Just doin’ my part.”

There was a moment of silence before Nick awkwardly ran a hand through his hair. “Shut me down if this is a bad question, but, uh, what’s with that thing you said when you came in to get us? What’s not obvious?”

The Texan grimaced, and shifted to lean back on her arms. “The whole men versus women thing,” she sighed. “Now I’m only tellin’ you this ‘cuz I know about y’all, and it’s only fair, but you gotta promise to keep it on the down-low.”

The men nodded; Rochelle followed suit, though she had no idea what was going on. Jesse scrunched up her nose, trying to put her thoughts in order.

“I ain’t… well, I _am_ … I was born a girl,” she began slowly. “But I don’t always feel like one. Some days I’m a guy, sometimes I’m neither. I go with bein’ a lady, ‘cuz that’s what folks expect, but… I dunno. Bein’ around the men doesn’t bother me, and like you saw, I don’t feel weird in the locker room. Honestly, havin’ to sleep in the girl’s dorm all the time is the tough part.”

“So you’re a tomboy,” Nick said, shrugging. “I don’t see the issue.”

“Nah, it’s more than that,” Jesse replied, shaking her head. “Somethin’ deeper. I can’t explain right, but I know folks around here’d freak if they found out. Oh, and there’s the whole thing with likin’ the ladies, too.” Her eyes darted to Rochelle again, so briefly that nobody noticed.

“Huh.” Ellis raised an eyebrow with an understanding, if embarrassed, smile. “Yeah, that’d do it.”

“Great, we can have our own little pride parade,” Nick muttered with light-hearted sarcasm. Jesse snorted in amusement.

“Ain’t so bad, really, but I do wanna get back home. Someplace I can be myself, at least.”

“Why not come with us?” Rochelle surprised herself, and everyone else, with the suggestion. “We could use another gun.”

Jesse stared, pink blooming on her cheeks. “I… are you serious?” Her voice was high-pitched with hope.

“Is that practical?” the conman asked. “Our car’s pretty full already.”

“Aw, c’mon, Nick, we can make room,” Ellis said. “If we don’t run into any more trouble we’ll be in New Orleans in, like, a day. We won’t need so much food and shit.”

“That’s a pretty big ‘if’, hotshot,” his partner replied.

“We don’t have to decide right now,” Rochelle said. “And not without Coach. Speaking of, can we go see him?”

The Texan convinced her heart to leave her throat so she could answer. “Yeah, absolutely. Wanna bring him somethin’ to eat?”

Ellis’ eyes went wide at the mention of food. “Sounds like a plan!” he declared, and rose from the bed with one last comforting pat on Rochelle’s back. He cast about for his new shirt, which he still wasn’t wearing; Jesse passed it to him, and dug out the other for Nick.

“I guess we’ll get you squared away a little later, then,” she said as the men fixed their clothes. “We gotta see Susanne, and get you some boots that fit. I just grabbed the big ones.”

“Maybe we could check stuff out around here, too?” asked the mechanic as they left the barracks. “This place looks amazin’.”

“Yeah, it is, and we sure can.”

Jesse led them to the steaming building, marked above the door with the name “Canteen 1.” When they got inside the aroma of hot food washed over them, setting their mouths watering and stomachs roaring like thunder. Four lines of long, sparsely populated tables ran almost the entire length of the hall, and at the back was the small industrial-looking kitchen whence came the tantalizing smell. A few people behind the counter were cleaning up after breakfast and preparing for lunch.

“Ain’t as fresh as it was a couple hours ago, but I reckon y’all don’t care about that,” Jesse quipped. Three hungry moans were the only answer.

In short order they were gorging themselves on hash browns, fried eggs, and juice boxes, nearly delirious with joy. Jesse watched, laughing, as she explained some of the camp’s infrastructure.

“We’ve got a couple hundred people livin’ here, and we take a lot of feedin’. The scouts go scavenge the city, and we supplement what they find with what we can grow ourselves – potatoes, onions, spinach, whatever. Got some chickens, too, and the fishin’ ain’t terrible. Not much game around, though. The zombies probably ate all the deer.”

“Thif if ftill th’ beft fud evr,” Ellis managed through an overfull mouth. Rochelle and Nick were too busy eating to even attempt speech.

Between them they demolished seven helpings. At last they sat back with satisfied groans, stuffed beyond what their starvation-shrunk stomachs could bear. Jesse beamed at them.

“Take a minute, let it settle, and we’ll head on over to see your friend. I’ll get him a tray.”

There was another unfamiliar person in the medbay when they got there. He was tall and gangly, with mousy brown hair and a big nose. He sat in a folding chair with his feet up on the surgical table, reading. As the group entered he put down the book and offered a tired smile.

“Hey, J-man. Are these the famous newcomers?”

“Yep,” Jesse said. “This is Rochelle, Ellis, and Nick. Guys, this is Steve. He’s one of our nurses.”

“Pleasure,” the man said, but did not rise. “Y’all’re here for the big guy, yeah? He woke up a few minutes ago.”

The three survivors immediately scurried to the rear of the building, leaving a hasty “Nice to meet you” in their wake. Jesse hung back; she didn’t want to intrude.

“Coach!” Ellis exclaimed happily as he approached the bed. The old footballer was sitting up, pillows supporting both his leg and his back. He looked pretty out of it, but brightened at the sight of his team.

“Young’un! Ro! Shit, y’all’re a sight for sore eyes.”

“I’m here too, y’know,” grouched Nick, shoving his hands in his pockets. Coach gave him a tolerant look.

“Hey, Nick.”

“How’re you feeling?” Rochelle broke in before any tension could develop. “The doctor said you were in pretty bad shape.”

“I’m still hurtin’, but… baby girl, where are we? Did we make it?” The hope in his voice was almost painful – he clearly thought they were out of the plague zone. He thought they were safe.

“Not all the way,” Nick said quietly as the others’ faces fell. “But we’re not alone out here.”

He and Rochelle filled Coach in on the situation while Ellis retrieved the forgotten food from Jesse. Coach wolfed it down as he listened, face becoming thoughtful.

“…so the plan is to get you healed up a bit and ship out as soon as possible,” Nick concluded. “I got enough info from the computer to figure out the best place to go.”

“Speakin’ of which, you’re gonna hafta hand it over now that Coach is okay,” Ellis said. “We oughta talk to the boss soon.”

“And the quartermaster,” Rochelle added, waggling one of her feet. Her oversized boot slid around comically.

“And you need to take a look at the car,” Nick told the mechanic.

“Okay, so we got a lot to do,” Ellis sighed, rubbing the back of his neck. “One thing at a time, though, right? We ain’t in any kinda rush.”

“I wish I could help, but I think I gotta add somethin’ else to the to-do list,” Coach grumbled. “Can a man get a hand up over here? I’d kill for a shower.”

It took some finesse, but with Steve’s assistance and a pair of heavily duct-taped crutches they got Coach back on his feet. Ellis reluctantly volunteered for the unsavory job of helping the injured man to wash, but Nick, to everyone’s surprise, overruled him.

“You’re too young for that kind of trauma,” he drawled sarcastically. “I’ll take one for the team.”

Rochelle glanced at him sidelong, detecting an ulterior motive. If her instincts were right, the ex-con wanted to talk to Coach alone – and given the strange gentleness Nick had been displaying so far today, she had the feeling it was a good idea to let him.

“Okay,” she said before the youngest could argue. “Come on, Ellis, let’s go do the laundry.”

The mechanic frowned, but didn’t make a fuss. Jesse shrugged with an easy smile.

“All right, follow me.”


	26. Chapter 26

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Content warning for a panic attack.

“Easy there, big guy,” Nick said, supporting Coach as he rose from the bench and using all the iron in his will to keep his focus. Helping the older man strip was one of the least pleasant experiences of his life – even counting the time he was hired to kill a mark by gutting – and actually assisting in what was effectively a sponge bath promised to be even worse. Coach, being a realistic man, understood this, and was suspicious.

“What’s your game, son?” he asked, getting his crutches under him again. “Tryin’a get back on my good side after that dumbass stunt you pulled, hmm?”

“You could say that,” the ex-con muttered dryly. In a louder voice, he continued, “I just wanted to clear the air. Uh, again.”

Coach chuckled. “You’re damn lucky you’re good with a gun, Nick, cuz you got one helluva a talent fo' screwin’ up everythin' else.”

Nick clenched his jaw hard enough for his skull to ache. The snarky little voice in the back of his mind, the one he thought he’d banished, was laughing at him.

“It’s hard, okay?” He tried to moderate his growl into something more sincere. “I’m still figuring myself out. I think… I think Ellis…”

The injured southerner let him trail off before speaking in a low, sad tone. “He’s yo’ everything after all, ain’t he?”

The look Nick gave him was as close to helpless as Coach had ever seen from the man. He closed his eyes with a faint shake of his head and a heavy sigh – this was right out of the ’03 season, the one where his star quarterback beat the shit out of some kid who’d hurt his girlfriend. Out here, though, you didn’t get expelled for that kind of nonsense. You got killed.

“I get that you wanna protect him, but -” His next words were abruptly cut off by a deep groan of appreciation as Nick turned on the shower. The conman smirked in spite of himself.

“Having fun, Coach?”

“The Good Lord is right here with us,” the Georgian said, and it sounded like a prayer. He fell silent, eyes closed as the water beat on his skin. Nick let him enjoy it for a moment, then cut the flow.

“So, what were you saying before the Rapture?” he asked, with a flash of his customary attitude.

Coach blinked water from his eyes and got his thoughts back in order. “You’re protective. Nothin’ wrong with that… matter of fact, it’s smart out here, watchin’ each other’s backs. But yo’ ass ain’t thinkin’ ‘bout anybody besides Ellis, and that don’t do our team any favors. He ain’t the only one needs protectin’. You’ve forgotten that.”

The gambler was quiet for a moment as he fidgeted with a washcloth and some soap. So Rochelle wasn’t alone in being able to see right through him… In fact, at this point it felt like the only one who _couldn’t_ tell what Nick was thinking was Nick himself. It irked him deeply, but now wasn’t the time to throw a fit about it. He could have a nice long self-indulgent brooding session later tonight. Instead he sighed heavily and got to work scrubbing his companion’s back. It had been much more fun doing this for Ellis.

“I’ve always been about what’s _mine_ ,” he said quietly. “ _My_ money, _my_ power, _my_ daughter, my – Jesus fucking Christ – my lover.” Coach winced. Nick swallowed hard and continued. “I never did the whole teamwork thing, y’know? I might be way past the ‘fuck these assclowns, I’m outta here’ stage by now, but…”

“You ain’t understandin’ where to go from there,” the older man commented astutely. “You got the _idea_ of what it means to be a team, but you ain’t got the _feel_ of it.”

“Honestly, I kinda wish I’d had you to teach me that shit when I was a kid,” Nick muttered. “But I’ve gotta play the hand I’m dealt. Well, usually… although I don’t think I’ve got the king of hearts up my sleeve this time. Hold still, this might hurt.”

Coach braced himself, hissing slightly as Nick carefully cleaned his injured leg. “You lookin’ for advice, son?” he asked, voice a little tight with controlled pain. The conman’s silence was answer enough. “This ain’t the time or place for my kinda teachin’, and if you want my honest opinion, it’s too late for you anyway. _But_ ,” he emphasized as Nick’s hands faltered. “I reckon we could find you a different path. Play t’yo' strengths.”

“Hah,” the gambler scoffed mirthlessly. “You really think I’ve got any?”

“Everybody’s got ‘em, boy. Just gotta find ‘em, figure out the right leverage to bring ‘em to the top.”

Nick felt distinctly uncomfortable at the thought of somebody else digging around in his psyche, let alone the man he’d been at odds with for weeks – but wasn’t that exactly why he’d volunteered to be here in the first place? To open up? He forced himself to swallow his pride and ask for help.

It was a lot easier than he expected it to be.

“So what’s the game plan, Coach? And can you turn around?”

The Georgian complied, carefully maneuvering his crutches on the slippery concrete. Nick turned on the water again for a brief rinse cycle, letting soap and grime spiral down the drain.

“Like you said, Nick, you got a powerful jealousy over what’s yours,” Coach began thoughtfully, staring into space. “The problem is, we _ain’t_ yours. Maybe Ellis is, but not me or Ro. We gotta help you accept us – not just put up with us, not be a whiny little shit about it – but really belong to each other. Really become a… I dunno, a family.”

Nick’s movements became slower until he stopped scrubbing completely, hand falling away from the other man’s skin. _Family_.

“I haven’t had great luck with families, Coach,” he rasped through a suddenly tight throat and sand-dry mouth. “Zero for three. Those aren’t odds I’m too keen on playing.”

“Ain’t yo’ fault, son,” Coach said seriously. “And I think you’ve seen by now that we ain’t the same as them. Yeah, you’re an obnoxious asshole sometimes, and maybe Ro and me get on yo’ case, but after all the hell we been through t’gether? After nearly losin’ you? It ain’t just Ellis gettin’ to like you, Nick. Ro an’ me, you’re ours, too. I think it’s past time for a little reciprocation.”

Nick exhaled heavily. It carried all the weight of the tension that had been festering between them, and acknowledged the point. Last night, he had learned something of what it was to submit – not because he had a gun to his head, but voluntarily. He was starting to realize that the whole alpha-male thing was worse than pointless; that obstinate, independent ego of his was flat-out detrimental, causing most if not all of the fights he’d had with the others. He knew he’d have to get rid of it; but he could tell that no matter how many grand resolutions he swore, he’d probably be struggling with that side of himself forever. Now seemed as good a time as any to make a start.

 _Told you so_ , his cruel mind whispered. _How long before there’s none of you left?_

 _Too long!_ Nick started; he hadn’t heard this other voice in a long time, either. _Fuck you. I don’t want you anymore, I don’t want to **be** you, and no matter how hard I have to work at it, I’m gonna leave you in the fucking dust. So piss off!_

Nicolas Fields had no answer to that.

“I’ll try, Coach,” he murmured out loud, voice rough and low. He was so far inside his own head that he didn’t notice what his hands were doing at all. This was a blessing, given that he was getting dangerously close to awkward territory. He’d have continued on autopilot anyway had the older man not cleared his throat noisily and taken a difficult half-step backwards.

“I can handle that on my own,” Coach grumbled, cheeks gone darker than usual. “Just hold me up on this side.”

Nick blinked, and looked away fast enough that he mercifully didn’t have time to process where he’d been. “Another rinse first. Then you can go nuts.”

The crude joke got a laugh out of his companion, who worshiped the water for another minute and began the more delicate part of his ablutions. Nick stood there supporting him, staring at the ceiling as he continued to think.

“Coach?”

“Nnh?”

“Your kid’s name is Kevin, right?”

The older man paused, suddenly tense. “Yeah. Why’re you askin’?”

“Can you tell me more about him?”

Coach slowly finished washing up, expression tight and sad. He didn’t speak, but gestured that Nick should return the second crutch and run the water one last time. The ex-con complied, letting the rest of the apocalypse-filth wash away. He even kept the shower on a few extra moments, just to smooth the furrows from his teammate’s careworn face. When the tap squeaked off for the final time, he helped Coach back to the bench and the fluffy towel waiting for him there.

It wasn’t until the older man was dry and decked out in the new fatigues Jesse had given them that he shook his head.

“Maybe when we’re all t’gether,” he sighed. “If I tell you, the young’uns’ll wanna know, and talkin’ about that shit…”

“It’s okay, buddy, I get it,” Nick soothed, tentatively squeezing Coach’s shoulder. “You know I do.”

They sat quietly until some other men came clamoring into the building. Coach heaved himself up with a wince and a sigh, Nick gathered their things, and together they returned to the medbay to wait for the rest of their group. Someone had changed the sheets on Coach’s bed; he nearly threw himself onto it before remembering that doing so would hurt. He let himself down gently instead.

“You feeling all right?” Nick asked. A raised eyebrow added layers to the question.

“Yeah,” the older man sighed, happily wriggling against the pillows for optimum comfort before meeting Nick’s gaze directly. “That too, but I’ll be watchin’. Any more white knight bullshit, and yo’ ass is gonna regret it.”

The gambler’s reflex was to issue a counter-threat, but he stopped it before it could reach his tongue. Instead of a scathing retort he merely said, “I’ll do better. I promise.”

 

* * *

 

There was another gate to Liberty Island that led to the other side of the river. It was through here that Jesse led them, but rather than crossing the bridge, the trio skirted the walls of the compound until they reached a pair of jetties. Two motorboats were tied up on the downstream side of one, and an odd little wooden building with a waterwheel sat on the end of the other. As they watched the old-fashioned device turn, a stocky young woman appeared at a side door with a pair of buckets on ropes. She tossed them into the river and hauled them back up, full. Jesse waved, and received a welcoming shout in return before the water-bearer went back inside.

“That’s Blue,” she said. “She’s nice, you’ll like her.”

“Blue?” Ellis asked, tilting his head quizzically.

“Well, her given name’s Emily, but we got four of ‘em so they’re color-coded,” Jesse explained. Both Rochelle and Ellis gave her bewildered looks, and she laughed. “No, seriously. There’s Emily Blue, Emily Pink, Emily Black, and Emily Red. It’s their favorite colors, see? Makes it easier to keep track.”

“Why not just use last names?” asked Rochelle as they approached the building. Jesse smiled impishly at her.

“This way’s more fun,” she said, and opened the door.

It was Ellis’ turn to laugh, which made him miss some of what was going on inside. The laundry consisted of a single good-sized room, from one wall of which protruded the axle of the waterwheel. It was hooked up to a generator, turning water currents into electrical ones. The power was routed to heating elements under a huge vat full of water, which was being stirred by a lanky man in a t-shirt and jeans. Blue had evidently just refilled it, as she had put her now-empty buckets down and was examining the newcomers with interest. Rochelle immediately noted that her hazel eyes widened as they fell on Ellis, and a faint blush mantled her already ruddy face. The journalist squeezed her lips tight to avoid a giggle, but couldn’t keep her eyebrows from migrating halfway up her forehead. The best part was that Ellis seemed totally oblivious, even during the formal introductions.

“Freddie, Blue, this is Rochelle and Ellis,” Jesse said. “They’re stayin’ with us for a spell. Got some laundry for the next load, too.”

“Great, more work,” Freddie groaned. Blue punched him in the shoulder.

“The duty roster changes tomorrow night, y’lazy idjit,” she scolded, and turned back to the other three with a shy smile. “Y’all don’t worry, now, I’ll handle it.”

Once more Rochelle noted the way Blue’s gaze caught on Ellis for a little longer than necessary. She bit back another laugh as the mechanic answered.

“Much obliged, ma’am,” he said with a lopsided grin. “Sorry ‘bout how nasty our clothes are, we ain’t been takin’ such great care of ‘em.”

Freddie scoffed. “We deal with what the scouts bring back. It can’t be much worse.”

“Oh, you think so?” Rochelle said with dark humor, sensing that the man was the type who deserved to be knocked down a peg. “How long are your boys outside for? A day?”

“Nine hours,” Jesse answered, smirking. Rochelle traded a knowing glance with her, then gave Freddie a condescending look.

“We’ve been out there for over a month. The newest clothes we’ve got are at least a week old. Have fun.”

Jesse, Ellis, and Blue all snorted in laughter at the look on the other man’s face – Rochelle may as well have told him to kiss a spitter.

“I’ll do it if it’s too gross,” Ellis offered, still chuckling. “We really did make a helluva mess outta everythin’.”

Rochelle immediately glanced at Blue, who was clearly hiding excitement behind a mask of annoyance. “Lord, _please_ ,” the young woman drawled, looking to the sky in exasperation. “Save me from another day with this moron.”

“You don’t have to do that,” Jesse told the mechanic, raising an eyebrow. “Strong guy like you? Susanne’ll probably want you on patrol.”

Ellis bobbed his head amiably, looking sheepish. “Sure, sure, but it’d just be a day. T’be perfectly honest, I could do with some time off from zombie-killin’.”

“I think that’s true for all of us,” Rochelle sighed. “If we’re going to pull our weight here, let’s at least ask for inside jobs at first.”

“Can’t hurt to try,” their guide said, shrugging. “Leave what you want clean here. I’ll bring the other guys’ stuff later.”

The two survivors deposited their foul clothes in one of the large baskets arrayed against the wall, lining up their old shoes on the floor next to it. Freddie grumpily nodded at them as they left. Blue was more enthusiastic.

“Bye, y’all!” she said cheerfully, then dropped her tone to something flirtier. “See you tomorrow, Ellis.”

At last, the mechanic noticed. Rochelle’s lips quirked upwards, watching his face - which was already pink from the damp heat of the laundry room - flush a little deeper.

“Aw, hell,” he muttered as they returned to the gate. “This’s gonna be awkward.”

“Not unless you let it get that way, sweetie,” his teammate pointed out. “Just tell her you’ve got somebody waiting for you on the other side, she’ll understand.”

Ellis rubbed the back of his neck and made a dissatisfied noise. His hyperactive imagination was already in overdrive, producing scenario after scenario that would end in disaster: having to lie, which he knew he was terrible at; making Nick jealous or mad at him; breaking Blue’s heart, that wouldn’t be good…

Oh, god, what if he got outed?

His own heart gave an abrupt, painfully hard thud at the chilling thought, and he felt like he couldn’t breathe even though he was suddenly panting like a dog. The world seemed to zoom in until all he could see was a single point on the ground beneath him; he stopped in his tracks, fell to his knees, and threw up.

“Woah, hey, Ellis, are you okay?” Rochelle was at his side immediately, gripping his arm with frantic fingers. “What’s wrong, baby, what happened?”

His head was spinning too much for him to answer. He heaved ragged breaths as the fear coursed through him, making him shiver uncontrollably.

“Stay calm,” Jesse murmured to her, kneeling in front of the Georgian without thought for his mess. “He’s havin’ a panic attack… Ellis, can you hear me?”

The mechanic’s terror-wide eyes found her face, darting around frantically as he took in every detail. He nodded jerkily.

“It’s okay, Ellis, you’re safe. Ain’t nothin’ bad’s gonna happen. Breathe.” She coaxed him through, reassuring him softly.

Rochelle bit her lip, bewildered and concerned. She had no idea what had caused this, but was too worried to think about it just then. Instead she rubbed gentle circles on his back like she did when her nephews got fussy, and listened to Jesse slowly bring him out of whatever headspace he’d fallen into.

“I… I’m sorry,” he finally croaked, throat burning with the aftermath of his vomit. “I don’t… I can’t…”

“It’s okay,” the women said in unison, and traded a sympathetic glance. Ellis chuckled weakly.

“Don’t this just beat all,” he muttered, getting to his feet with some assistance. “I just… I was thinkin’ ‘bout how to deal with Blue, and…”

“You don’t have to explain,” Jesse said quietly. “Folks can get triggered by pretty much anythin’. If her likin’ you’s a problem, we’ll give you some other kinda work.”

Ellis shook his head stubbornly. “Ain’t a problem. Won’t happen again.”

“Don’t make this about pride,” the younger woman said. “There’s no shame in – ”

“It’s fine,” he said firmly. “I’m okay now. I can handle it.” He shrugged free of their support and walked shakily to the river’s edge, kneeling to splash cool water on his face and swill some around his mouth.

Rochelle ran a hand through the short brush of her hair. “It seems like we’re both a little fragile right now,” she sighed heavily. “I hope Coach and Nick are okay.”

Jesse shrugged. “We’ll see. I’ll keep an eye on y’all.”

Compassionate grey met weary brown as she caught Rochelle’s gaze. The journalist felt a warm swell of gratitude, coupled with relief that she and Ellis wouldn't have to face their demons alone.

Ellis returned in what seemed to be a more stable frame of mind. He resettled his cap over his sandy curls and gave a stiff nod.

“What’re we doin’ next?”

They met the quartermaster, a white-haired old man named Al who dug out a pair of boots that actually fit Rochelle. After that they rejoined Nick and Coach; Jesse made another run to the laundry to deliver the older men’s clothes, leaving the four survivors in relative peace. It wasn’t private enough to discuss any sensitive topics – Steve was still reading his book, occasionally looking up to check on the three other injured men lying nearby – but they could talk about other things.

“Feeling better, Coach?” Rochelle asked, taking a seat at the foot of his bed. The older man favored her with a wide smile.

“Little sister, I’d forgotten what bein’ clean feels like,” he said. “We gonna meet the boss now?”

“When Jesse gets back,” she answered, and dropped her eyes to inspect her shoes. “Which raises a point. I’d like to take her with us when we leave.”

Their leader blinked, expression becoming serious. “An’ why’s that?”

“Well, for starters, we could use another able-bodied person along,” Rochelle said sheepishly. “You’re still in no shape to fight. No offense.”

“None taken,” Coach rumbled. “What else?”

“She’s been… I don’t even know. Ellis and I… we both had panic attacks this morning – we’re fine, now, it’s okay,” she added hastily as the southerner sat up in concern and Nick snapped his head around to look at his lover. “She helped us through. I think it’d be smart to keep her with us, in case it happens again.”

“Ellis, what-?” Nick asked, plainly upset.

The mechanic looked away. “I don’t wanna talk about it,” he muttered defensively. “Maybe later.”

The gambler instinctively moved to take his hand, but stopped himself at the last second. He gently patted Ellis’ shoulder instead.

“Y’all sure you’re all right?” Coach asked, not relaxing. Ice ran down his spine as he realized his fears were coming true: it was the Gulf all over again, and he couldn’t bear to think of his teammates ending up like his cousin.

“Yes, Coach,” Rochelle told him. “But we’ve all been way too badly stressed for way, _way_ too long, and honestly it’s a miracle none of us have broken down like this before now. Having a counselor along seems like a smart move.”

Ellis cleared his throat. “An’ it ain’t too far to New Orleans, with the car,” he added. “Losin’ cargo space ain’t gonna matter that much. We can stop for supplies whenever we need to.”

Coach turned to the last of their number. “An’ what do you think, slick?”

Nick rubbed noncommittally at his chin. “She’s nice enough, and really wants to get out of here. We should see what she’s like with a gun first, and have a solid plan about where we’re going, but in theory I guess I’ve got no problems with her joining up.”

The older man frowned in thought for a moment. “I wanna get to know her a little better ‘fore makin’ a decision,” he said slowly. The others looked at each other and shrugged.

“Sounds fair,” Nick said. Rochelle and Ellis nodded agreement.

“Yer gonna like her,” the youngest declared confidently. “She’ll fit right in.”

The subject of their discussion soon returned to collect them. Coach nodded somberly at her.

“We goin’?”

“Yeah, if you’re up to it,” Jesse answered. Coach hummed in the affirmative, Nick passed him the crutches, and Ellis helped him stand. Together the group made their way out of the building.

“Don’t rip your stitches!” Steve called irritably after them.

Susanne’s office was in yet another barracks, and shared space with what looked like mission control. Four tables were staffed by people wearing radio headsets; three of the operators chatted casually, two with each other and one with the team on the other end of her line, but the last was scribbling rapidly on a notepad. Behind these was a wall with a door set into it. Jesse led them there, and knocked.

“Yeah.”

They stepped inside. Two empty chairs rested before another table covered in paperwork, and several large pieces of paper were pinned to the wall behind it. One was a huge spreadsheet detailing people and jobs; another looked like a set of blueprints. The last was a map of Montgomery, with red and green marks spreading in a north-to-south pattern across the city. The only other thing in the sparse room was a very familiar-looking computer, sitting with its accessories in a far corner.

The woman behind the desk had short, dirty blonde hair that was starting to go silver, and when she looked up they saw she had a broad, no-nonsense face carved with deep lines. Her blue-grey eyes were as piercing as Nick’s at his most intimidating, and she did not lose her severe expression as the survivors approached.

“Susanne, this is Rochelle, Coach, Ellis, and Nick,” Jesse said. “Y’all, this is Susanne. She runs this town.”

The mayor deliberately placed her pen on the table and sized them up, making the survivors doubly thankful that they no longer looked like the horror show they’d been the night before.

“Let’s talk. Not you,” she said sternly to Jesse, who rapidly concealed her disappointment with a salute.

“Yes, ma’am,” she responded, and left. The door clicked shut behind her.

“So you’re the strays.” Susanne leaned back in her chair and crossed her arms, then nodded at Coach. “Sit down, son.”

He sank into one of the available chairs with visible relief. The others remained standing, but raised incredulous eyebrows at hearing their leader referred to as “son.” Nick had to fight to hold back a snort of laughter.

“I hear you’ve struck a bargain with Sarge,” Susanne continued. “Military intel and a supply drop in exchange for our hospitality, ain’t that right?”

“Yes, ma’am,” Ellis said. “An’ may I jus’ say how much we appreciate what y’all’ve done for us already.”

“You may,” the mayor said with a thin smile. “Now, I’m given to understand that accordin’ to the terms of the agreement, you’re due to hand over that information. Gator Team brought this box back with you – ” She jerked her head to indicate the computer. “ – and I’d take it as a kindness if you were to open it up.”

Despite the phrasing, the statement was clearly an order. Nick resisted the urge to crack wise, and swiped a hand through his hair instead.

“It needs power,” he said. “Can we hook it up in here?”

“You sure can,” Susanne answered.

She showed him an outlet behind her desk. Nick set up the rig while she peppered Coach with questions about where they’d been, where they were going, and how long they were planning to stay. By the time the impromptu techie had blanked the administrator password and opened the relevant files, the older woman had heard almost the entire story of their journey.

“There,” Nick declared, straightening up from the keyboard. “She’s all yours.”

“Much obliged,” Susanne said. “Now, as far as you stayin’. Everybody here contributes to the runnin’ of this facility. Since y’all clearly know how to hold your own out there, you’re gonna be rotated into the patrols. We have six teams in two nine-hour shifts, mornin’ and night. The duty roster changes every Sunday, but scouts get two days off a week. You’ll start tomorrow – except for you, Coach, we’ll figure somethin’ else out.”

Ellis raised a tentative hand. “Actually, ma’am, can we take one’a those days off first, please?” Susanne frowned, and he hastened to explain. “It’s just, we’ve been fightin’ for a month straight already. I ain’t askin’ to do _nothin_ ’, like, I volunteered for laundry, but it’d be a blessin’ to not go outside for a bit.”

The mayor drummed her fingers on the table for a moment. Rochelle took the chance to weigh in.

“I’m not half bad with plants,” she suggested. “I’ll work in the garden.”

“Sewin’ don’t take much standin’,” Coach added with a shrug.

Nick fingered the strap of his rifle where it crossed his chest. “I’m a sniper. I’ll man the walls.”

Susanne twisted her mouth sideways in a grim smirk. “I reckon we could manage that,” she said briskly, and wrote some names on a piece of paper that she passed to Coach. “Jesse’ll introduce you to the folks you’ll be workin’ with. Take this afternoon to get settled. Anythin’ else?”

“One thing,” Rochelle said, bracing herself for a fight. “Doctor Calloway told us there’s no co-ed bunks except for families, but we want to stay together. We haven’t really been apart since Savannah, and I…” She shuddered, remembering that morning’s paralyzing fear. Her voice fell, quiet and pained. “I can’t handle being alone.”

Nick and Ellis shifted to stand with her, and Coach sat a little straighter. The mayor’s already stern face grew harder.

“We’ve got rules,” she said. “This place follows the word of God, and we don’t tolerate livin’ in sin.”

“Living in… Ha!” Nick laughed harshly. “You think she’s _sleeping_ with us? That’s fucking hilarious!”

Ellis, mortified, couldn’t speak. He blushed scarlet as Rochelle gaped in shock; Coach shifted indignantly.

“Listen here,” he began. “We’re just as righteous as y’all. Ain’t no hanky-panky goin’ on, and I’ll swear to that.”

The mechanic nearly choked, but recovered in time to back his countryman up. “Amen,” he declared, making a mental note to find Coach every chocolate bar left in the city.

Nick knew what he had to do. He got himself together, dredging up his acting skills and meeting Susanne’s eyes. They matched his own in power and steel, but he held the gaze, pitting will against will.

“You can think whatever you want,” he said, in the dark voice that gave Ellis the shivers. “But we belong together. We’re family.”

Tension vibrated in air undisturbed by breath. Ellis subtly crossed his fingers; Coach and Rochelle silently prayed that their teammate’s ploy would work. Seconds stretched into an eternity with no sign of either backing down, until –

“Please,” Rochelle whispered.

Susanne blinked, and looked away.

“There’s empty units in buildin’ twelve,” she said, giving no hint that she’d just lost an argument. “Scram.”

A collective exhale took the stress from the atmosphere, and all four survivors sagged with relief.

“Thank ya kindly, ma’am,” Ellis murmured, helping Coach stand. They left the office, finding Jesse leaning nonchalantly against the wall a few feet away as though she hadn’t been listening in. The broad grin on her face betrayed her.

“That was damn impressive!” she said once they were out of earshot. “Y’all’re somethin’ else, gettin’ anythin’ outta her.”

“Yeah, well,” Nick muttered awkwardly. “Thanks, Coach. We owe you one.”

“You owe me more’n that, son,” the older man grumbled, but a tiny smile hovered on his lips.


	27. Chapter 27

Coach, leg aching, passed Susanne’s list to Jesse and grumpily resigned himself to bed with a book provided by Steve. For the others, though, the next two hours were a whirlwind of names and faces. Lunch consisted of a stew that they could hardly tell had come from a can, accompanied by fresh sourdough bread and rather mushy peas. They met a dizzying number of people in the mess hall; many were simply curious about the newcomers, but a few made a point to mention how impressed they were by the warriors who’d fought their way on foot from Savannah to Montgomery. Ellis and Rochelle seemed flattered, but all the attention only served to put Nick on edge.

He made sure not to let it show, but it was making him claustrophobic. Heart beating a little too fast, body a little too tense, he excused himself from the table before his taut nerves snapped. As he waited outside he played solitaire in his head, fiercely annoyed at how unsettled he felt. He was a creature of the city, at home in a sea of humanity, and it wasn’t like fifty-odd people really constituted a crowd. Nevertheless, he jumped at sudden movements, hand twitching reflexively to the pistol on his thigh before his brain accepted the fact that there was no threat.

Eventually his imaginary cards did their job, allowing him to calm down just in time for the cafeteria to empty. His friends rejoined him with sympathetic glances, but thankfully didn’t mention his abrupt departure.

“Y’all want the grand tour now?” Jesse asked, neatly distracting them all from Nick’s discomfort. “I mean, you’ve seen most of it, but not the most interestin’ bits.”

“Hell yeah,” Ellis agreed, and tipped his head in the direction of the mysterious plume of smoke far in the back. “What’s that?”

Their guide led them down the courtyard, briefly pointing out the dorms and family housing as they went. Between the living quarters and the gardens, level with the swingset, was a barracks that looked considerably different from the others – the bottom three feet of wall was covered in bright, childish paintings, and a smiling sun rose over the door. The survivors slowed their pace, expressions growing haunted.

“Daycare,” Jesse said carefully, noticing their change of attitude. She tried to skate past it and continue with the tour, but Nick had to know.

“How many?” he asked with a rasp in his throat. “How old?”

The Texan tried to keep her voice light and calm. “Six kids under ten,” she answered. “We got a few older ones, too, but they’re grown enough to work. C’mon.”

Her three companions took one last look at the building and swallowed thickly before shaking off their unnerved heartache to follow.

As they passed through the farm they took a slight detour to meet a crotchety old man named Wesley, who Jesse said was in charge of the agriculture. Before falling in with Nick, Rochelle probably would have felt a slight trepidation at the prospect of working with the old coot, but now her only response to his grouchiness was a bland smile. She could easily manage him for a day.

Once past the chicken coops they saw another building, built of cinderblock rather than the corrugated iron that made up everything else. When they got closer they could see it was actually set into the great surrounding wall, and the billowing black cloud came from the other side of it. The sentries pointedly avoided that part of the battlements.

“Under here’s what makes Liberty Island work,” Jesse began. “The engineerin’ hub. Power, water purification, waste, it all goes through here. We’ve even got a blacksmith – that’s what the smoke’s from.”

“Isn’t it a little small for all that?” Rochelle asked as they approached the door. The Texan gave another of her wide collection of grins, and turned the handle.

“This is just the tip of the iceberg, sugar.”

Before Rochelle could do more than blink at the pet name the portal swung open, and a solid wall of heat slammed into them. Along with it came the tangy reek of hot metal, making Nick cough and the others wrinkle their noses. Sharp, rhythmic _clang_ noises were audible over the rush of a roaring fire, in front of which stood the sort of man who’d probably become a tank if he caught the Flu. He utterly dwarfed the boy at his side, who stood ready to operate a large bellows mounted into the furnace. Neither seemed aware of their visitors.

“Garrett! Zack!” Jesse called, trying to get their attention. “I got some folks here to meet you!”

The boy gave a start, but the larger man’s arm deviated not one jot from its clockwork striking. He merely turned his head slightly, speaking over his shoulder without losing sight of his work.

“One sec,” he said, in a voice that was somehow less booming than one would expect from a man of his stature. “Give it some air,” he instructed his assistant, who obeyed with alacrity. The flames roared a little higher, and after another two hits the blacksmith put his work back in to heat.

“How’s it goin’?” he asked, turning around to approach the group. The casual phrase and Southern accent struck Rochelle as anachronistic – she’d half-expected to hear a lot of thees and thous with an English inflection, given the almost medieval feel to the atmosphere.

Jesse rattled off the introduction she’d given a dozen times already that day. Garrett thoughtfully didn’t offer his sweaty, soot-streaked hand to shake, nodding politely instead. Zack remained at his post, but waved shyly. Even without the hulking smith for comparison, he was small; he was probably one of the over-tens Jesse had mentioned, but not by much. Rochelle smiled at him with a pang in her heart – with his broad nose, coppery skin, and slender frame, he looked a little like Joey.

“What’re ya makin’?” Ellis had started poking around. He displayed uncommon sense in not touching anything, a fact that made Nick smirk affectionately once he recovered from his coughing fit.

“Anythin’ that needs t’be made ‘round here,” Garrett answered, keeping a watchful eye on the curious mechanic. “Blades, tools, whatever. I got a couple machetes in there right now, an’ later I’ll be doin’ a batch of arrowheads. Scouts go through ‘em like crazy.”

“How d’you do it? Where d’you get all the metal? How long – ”

“Easy there, tiger,” Nick said, raising an eyebrow. “It sounds like the guy’s busy, let’s not crawl up his ass about it.”

Garrett chuckled at that. “Naw, it’s cool. I ain’t had anybody this interested in the job since lil’ Zack, an’ your friend here looks like he’s got more of the muscle for it.”

Ellis grinned at the compliment, but Zack developed a petulant expression. He squinted into the fire for a moment, and piped up in a voice clearly meant to reclaim his boss’ attention.

“The firs’ one’s ready, Garrett!”

“Back to it, then,” the smith said, picking up his tongs from beside the anvil. Ellis watched with intense fascination as he drew a length of red-hot steel out of the forge, but had to take a step back to avoid the spray of burning sparks that flew as the hammer began to fall.

“Come on, sweetie,” Rochelle beckoned. “Let the man work.”

Ellis reluctantly moved away, pouting. Jesse laughed.

“You can come back later. Don’t’cha wanna see the rest?”

She took them to a stairwell on the other side of the room. Nick sighed gratefully at the cooler air as they descended, but took the breath right back in a gasp when they turned a corner near the bottom.

To a city boy like him, it looked like a tornado had swept through an industrial warehouse. He vaguely recognized water heaters and an electrical switchboard, but the rest was a maze of pipes and tanks and wires that made his vision blur as he tried to follow them. The only thing he could really get a handle on was the enormous array of supplies stacked along the far wall. Food, clothes, ammunition, fuel, and even piles of scrap metal were neatly sorted in a grid that would allow someone to easily reach any item they wanted. Altogether, the whole place was nearly as large as the compound above, and crawling with technicians tending the systems. It was staggering.

“Knights of Columbus,” Rochelle breathed, eyes wide. Even Ellis was speechless. Jesse looked a little smug.

“The Island’s beatin’ heart,” she said proudly, leaning against the railing. “You got your solar batteries, your plumbin’ and electric, and the main supply cache for the kitchens, medbay, and armory to draw from. Linda and Benny are our chief engineers – I think you met ‘em at lunch.”

“Yeah,” Ellis confirmed absently. “How in the hell did a bunch’a regular folks get all this workin?”

“From what I hear, not all of ‘em were that regular,” Jesse scoffed. “Garrett, Sarge, Susanne, Al, and a few others are all that’s left of the Militia now, but Before, they had a bunch of real rich sons’a bitches on board. Who was it… Richard B-somethin’, I don’t remember. He owned a construction company. I think they built the place.”

“Wait – Richard _Bolton_?” Nick asked incredulously. Jesse snapped her fingers.

“That’s the one. What, you know him?”

“You could say that,” he said, astonished green eyes clouding at the dusty memory being dragged to light. “He hired us a while back to, ah, send a _message_ to a competitor up in Boston. That hit was one of mine.”

Jesse glanced sidelong at him and raised a questioning eyebrow. “I’m sensin’ a story, here,” she said slowly, mouth quirking up with interest. Nick jolted out of his musings, and grimaced.

“Yeah, I shouldn’t have said that.”

She continued giving him a Look for a few moments longer, but to his relief didn’t follow up on the topic. Instead she took them down the last flight of stairs to floor level, across the room, and through another door that led back up to the surface. It came out in a small building at the front of the installation, next to where the cars were parked. Sharing the space was a desk quite similar to Susanne’s, but with more detailed maps and a different roster pinned to the wall. Behind it sat a muscular older man, with a nearly-white buzz cut and an AK-47 close to hand. He looked up as the group emerged from the stairwell, maintaining a tired, neutral expression as Jesse approached and performed the introduction once more.

Sarge did not rise, and his only greeting was a shallow nod to each of them. Only Jesse’s cheerfulness kept the atmosphere from growing awkward.

“…so they’ll be joinin’ your patrols on Sunday, and – ”

She was interrupted by a burst of noise from the walkie-talkie at the man’s hip. He held up one gnarled finger, shushing her so he could take the call.

“What?”

“Viper team’s got two wounded, they’re comin’ home early.”

“How bad?”

“Three’s back is tore up, Five’s got a broken arm.”

“ETA?”

“Twenty minutes if they don’t hit more trouble.”

“Find Calloway and Parker, have ‘em standin’ by. Put the sentries and the gate watch on alert. Call if there’s news.”

“Yessir.”

Sarge put the radio down and rubbed his stubbled face with both hands. “Like we don’t got enough injured already,” he sighed. “I gotta say, if y’all’re good as everyone’s tellin’ me, y’all couldn’t’a showed up at any better time. _Eleven_ scouts hurt in the last week, three critical, two dead. This ain’t normal.”

“Sounds pretty average to me,” Nick said with a shrug. “It’s a jungle out there.”

“Y’all don’t understand,” Sarge said, leaning forward on his arms. “My people’re combat trained, tough as nails, and armed to the teeth. ‘Til now we’ve had maybe three injuries a week, pretty minor, no fatalities. But now… The reports are that those monsters’re changin’ even more. Smarter, faster. Things’re gettin’ worse.”

The three survivors looked at each other with grim realization. Ellis swallowed nervously.

“We know what’cha mean,” he said, voice low with resigned dread. “A hunter was stalkin’ us for days, even ran away when we got a shot off at it. Ain’t never seen a zombie do that before.”

“That’s what happened to Coach,” Nick added quietly. “It ambushed us.”

Rochelle blinked. “Remember that tank, on the highway? Remember how fast it was?”

“Shit,” Ellis swore flatly. Nick gave a little snort of black amusement.

“That about sums it up.”

“Yeah, it ain’t too good,” Jesse said, lifting her chin to scratch gently at her collarbone. “We’re hopin’ the virus ain’t gonna mutate far enough to hit us immune ones.”

“Well, it ain’t like we got the choice not to deal with ‘em,” Sarge sighed, leaning back in his chair again. “’specially with all our casualties. We gotta scrounge around even more to keep enough medical supplies.”

“We know how that goes,” Rochelle said sympathetically. “We’ll do what we can to help, while we’re here.”

“Much appreciated,” Sarge replied with a weary smile. “Now, if y’all’re gonna join up, y’all oughta know how it works ‘round here. Mornin’ shift is Stallion, Viper, and Eagle teams. They’re out from six A.M. to three P.M. Night shift is three P.M. to midnight, and that’s Gator, Hawk, and Puma. Whoever ain’t on duty stands by in case an active crew needs help. Each team’s got six members, and we rotate folks so everybody gets two days off a week.”

“Susanne mentioned that. It’s a nice system,” Nick said approvingly. The older man tilted his head in acknowledgement.

“We’ve been workin’ through the city from north to south, clearin’ it out. I keep track of where we’ve been and what kinda shit my people find. Base stays in radio contact when y’all’re out there, and they report in to me when somethin’ interestin’ happens. Good places to loot, bad nests of zombies, destroyed areas… We’ve been findin’ a lotta those since the bombin’.”

“Yeah, what the hell was that about?” Nick asked sharply. “When did it happen?”

“About three days ago,” Jesse answered sadly. “Around four in the mornin’, thank God, so none of ours got hurt.”

“CEDA barricaded the place pretty quick after the infection, only a couple days after the Militia opened up the Island,” Sarge continued. “They tried to make the city a safe extraction zone. Got some folks evac’d by air, but they moved to New Orleans. ‘Cuz of the harbors, or some such, or maybe the Flu took hold too fast. They left a lotta people behind.”

“Those sons’a bitches,” Ellis said tightly. “If I ever find ‘em…”

“Easy, killer,” Nick murmured to him, gently restraining the hand that was drifting to his pistol despite the cold fury coursing through his own veins. Sarge scoffed humorlessly.

“Nah, the young’un’s right. But it gets worse. After CEDA left, the military took over. I reckon they wanted to make a border, y’know, empty out all the cities so the infection couldn’t spread. My buddy Matthews was pretty much the only one to make it out alive. The way he tells it, the troops pretty much mowed down everybody still movin’ until the place got too hot. A lotta soldiers died – good fuckin’ riddance – and then the military pulled out. We’ve been scroungin’ the leftovers ever since.”

“And now they’re trying to wipe the zombies out,” Rochelle finished sadly. “Everywhere east of here’s a lost cause.”

“That’s what we figure,” Sarge said. “We’re hopin’ that intel y’all brought is gonna tell us more.”

“At least we know there’s civilization left someplace,” Ellis said hopefully. “Zombies ain’t exactly great bomber pilots.”

“That silver linin’s a mite tarnished, boy,” Sarge chuckled. “But I like your spirit. Lookin’ forward to seein’ y’all on Sunday.”

His radio went off again, so Jesse herded them all outside to let him work. Their next stop was the top of the wall to meet Harrison, the woman in charge of the sentries. She gave Nick the same kind of piercing appraisal he’d once used to judge marks for his cons – it made him distinctly uncomfortable to be on the receiving end. Fortunately, she seemed to be satisfied, if not overly thrilled, with what she saw.

“Nice rifle,” she commented. “You know how’ta use it?”

The ex-con bristled slightly, but didn’t snap back. “Well enough.”

“Show me,” Harrison said, and pointed out over the battlements. From fifty feet up they could see quite a reasonable distance, even far enough to make out the city suburbs, although the closer riverbanks were shrouded by trees. Nick followed her finger, squinting a little. With the naked eye he could just barely see movement; his rifle’s scope brought the target into focus.

“A smoker, huh?” he said in a voice like a razor’s edge, kneeling to steady his gun in a crenellation. Ellis and Rochelle suppressed shudders at the pure hatred on his face.

“It’s been hangin’ out for a couple hours, right in the path Viper team’s gotta take to get home. None of us have the range for it, but…”

Nick hadn’t been listening – he’d been aiming. Ellis watched his body go unnaturally still, and a second later the familiar _KRAKK_ of his rifle split the air. The mechanic glanced out over the wall to see a tiny puff of green just on the edge of his vision. A satisfied smirk twitched up the corner of the sniper’s mouth. Harrison crossed her arms and raised her eyebrows, apparently impressed.

“Not half bad, Yankee. Where’d you learn to shoot like that?”

“Oh, y’know. Places.” The northerner’s face was blank as he rose to his feet, revealing nothing. His new C.O. gave him a suspicious look, but let the matter drop.

“Awright, then. We got the same shifts as the scouts, plus the dog watch from midnight to six. Which d’you want?”

The survivors glanced at each other. “One sec,” Nick said, and moved to confer with his friends.

“I’m thinkin’ mornin’,” Ellis suggested. “We’ve done the whole night-fightin’ thing, and it sucks. Bein’ out in the day’s way better, and you’ll be on the right schedule when we go out there.”

“You’d have more fun here in the evenin’, too,” Jesse commented. “Everybody not on the wall or out scavengin’ gets to relax. A few of the guys even put together a band, and they play sometimes.”

Ellis’ eyes lit up at the mention of music, but Rochelle interrupted before he could sidetrack the conversation. “I’m with you. Do morning.”

Nick turned back to Harrison. “I’ll take first watch,” he said. “That okay?”

“Just fine,” she replied with a nod. “I’ll see you tomorrow. I wish Sarge’d put you with me on Sunday’s roster, though. You’re a damn fine shot.”

Nick preened at that.

Suddenly Ellis had a sneaky little thought, and convinced his face to approach a cross between sheepish and worried. “Uh, speakin’ of Sunday, I got a question,” he said, half-raising a tentative hand. “We ain’t heard the good Word in ages. Y’all havin’ a church service, or…?”

Harrison smiled at him with an expression much softer than any she’d displayed so far. “Don’t’chu worry, son. We’ve got two, so everybody can go.”

The mechanic relaxed slightly and returned the smile. “Oh. Good.”

Nick, the professional con, immediately picked up on his partner’s game and adopted an earnest, hopeful expression. “You wouldn’t have a Catholic mass, would you?”

The woman gave him a benevolent, but slightly condescending, look. “Sorry, slick. We’ve only got a Baptist preacher here.”

“Hmm. I guess I’ll make do,” the conman replied, with just the right amount of disappointment.

Rochelle wasn’t entirely sure what was going on, but trusted the boys enough that she joined in on their little act. “Where should we go, and when should we be there?”

“The evenin’ service is at five, in Canteen two.”

“Much obliged,” Ellis said, respectfully touching the brim of his hat. Jesse, who’d been looking out over the river, sensed an appropriate end to the conversation and followed the survivor’s lead.

“D’you wanna meet our Padre?” she asked lightly. “I think he’s workin’ the kitchens this week.”

“Sure,” Nick said with a shrug. “Lead on.”

Back down the stairs they went. Once out of Harrison’s earshot, Ellis let out a huge sigh as though he’d put down a heavy load. Nick elbowed him playfully in the ribs.

“Nice going, ace.”

“At what, exactly?” Rochelle asked, raising an eyebrow. The corner of the mechanic’s mouth crept upwards in something reminiscent of a proud smirk.

“Well, Susanne ain’t too happy lettin’ us sleep in the same place, right? I’m just tryin’ t’make us seem a lil’ more, like, respectable. But…” His face fell, slowly. “T’be honest, I don’t really care about goin’ t’church anymore.”

A lump appeared in Rochelle’s throat in response to the quiet sadness in her teammate’s voice. She attempted to redirect his attention away from the depressing topic.

“I think you’ve been hanging around Nick too much, honey. Lying and manipulating people? He’s a bad influence.”

Nick forced a chuckle, similarly hoping to cheer his young lover up a bit. “That’s all him, sweetheart. I haven’t been teaching him a damn thing.”

“I wasn’t really lyin’, technically,” Ellis mumbled. “Just pretendin’ t’be interested.”

“Do you still wanna meet the preacher, or should we do somethin’ else?” Jesse asked delicately. Ellis shook himself a little, then cocked his head to the side in thought.

“I guess we oughta. Small place like this, word’ll get around if we don’t.”

“Let’s pick up Coach,” Rochelle suggested. “Out of all of us, he’s the one who’d be most interested.”

The medbay was a hive of activity when they got there, as Doc Calloway, Steve, and a second nurse – presumably Parker – got the place ready for their incoming casualties. Jesse and Rochelle stayed out of the way while the men went to talk to Coach. A minute later all five of them left, and began the slow walk to the kitchens. They reached Canteen 1 just in time to hear the roar of an engine and creaking of metal; they turned to see the eastern gate swing open and a patrol vehicle speed inside. It pulled up to the hospital building in a violent skid of dirt.

“That was fast,” Rochelle commented. “Didn’t the guy on the radio say twenty minutes? It’s hardly been ten.”

Jesse squinted through the dust at the frantic action by the car. “Bennett was drivin’. That man’s got a lead foot.”

The survivors caught a glimpse of the more injured scout as she was borne into surgery. It was hard to see detail, but the rags on the woman’s back were already soaked through with red. Coach winced, and murmured a prayer.

“She’ll be okay,” Jesse said quietly. “Probably. If she didn’t lose too much blood. Her spine ain’t broken, at least, or she’d never have made it home.”

They, and seemingly everyone else in the courtyard, watched until the area was quiet and Bennett had parked the Hummer back where it belonged. The uninjured members of Viper team, banished from the medbay, began to unload what cargo they had scavenged before things went sour.

The Island’s residents slowly resumed their work, but the atmosphere remained subdued. The survivors entered the cafeteria quietly, and made their way to the back. Jesse paused at the head of one of the long tables.

“Y’all go ahead and sit down. I’ll get the Padre.”

They did so, and presently their guide returned, followed by a middle-aged man of average stature and relaxed bearing. His skin was so black that the smile he gave them was dazzlingly white in comparison, and when he shook hands he used both of his own to clasp the survivors’ in a warm embrace. The only thing about him that gave a hint as to his profession was the large silver cross hanging from a cord around his neck.

“Welcome, welcome,” he murmured to each of them, taking a seat of his own next to Coach and Ellis while Jesse slid onto the bench beside Nick and Rochelle. “I’m Pastor Young. I hear you’ve had quite a journey.”

They retold their story, albeit with the same liberal editing they’d done when talking to Susanne. The priest was, unsurprisingly, an excellent listener, and had the same comfortably inviting aura about him that Jesse did. Even Nick caught himself liking the man.

“You have been tested sorely,” Pastor Young said when they were finished with the tale. “I hope our sanctuary brings you some peace, for as long as you choose to stay.”

“Thank you, Brother,” Coach rumbled. “If we didn’t have family to find…”

“Of course,” the other man said with an understanding smile. “If you ever need to talk about anything, my door is always open. I sleep in bunk three, and I never leave the Island. Somebody will know where I am.”

“Uh, Pastor, if ya wouldn’t mind…” Ellis said, and reached up to slowly remove his hat. “Could we have a prayer ‘fore we go, please?”

They bowed their heads and clasped hands around the table as the priest spoke in the serene voice of the true believer.

“Behold, God is my salvation; I will trust, and not be afraid, for the Lord God is my strength and my song, and He has become my salvation. He has brought us through these dark times to be together in brotherhood. We thank Him for his mercy and pray that He will carry us safe to His kingdom in the fullness of time. Rejoice always, pray without ceasing, give thanks in all circumstances, for this is the will of God in Christ Jesus for you. Amen.”

“Amen,” the others repeated with varying degrees of sincerity. Coach had to wipe his eyes when they let go of each other’s hands; Rochelle took a deep, steadying breath. Nick was having trouble suppressing a sneer. Ellis jammed his hat back over his curls.

“Thanks,” he said. Pastor Young humbly dipped his head.

“Any time at all.”

The young Georgian maintained a thoughtful demeanor until their group left the mess hall. Once outside, though, a wry twist found its way to his mouth.

“He don’t seem like the righteous fury type,” he commented. “What kinda stick has Susanne got up her ass?”

Jesse choked with sudden laughter. “Christ, Ellis, don’t let anybody hear you say that,” she whispered. “Just because the preacher we ended up with ain’t obsessed with sin and hellfire don’t mean everybody else ain’t. A lotta folks here followed pretty conservative doctrine.”

“I bet most of ‘em are pissed they didn’t get beamed up to Heaven before the infection hit,” Nick quipped, only half joking.

“Maybe. It’s better to just go along with it, anyway.”

They stood in contemplative silence for a moment, before Coach shifted on his crutches with a wince.

“I oughta get back to lyin’ down,” he said resentfully. “This shit still hurts.”

“They’re probably busy in there,” Rochelle pointed out with a nod to the medical building. “Is there somewhere else we can go?”

“Absolutely,” Jesse answered, regaining her customary grin. “Y’all got that family bunk space, remember?”

She took them down the row of dorms to one of the wider barracks they’d passed earlier. Inside was a door-lined hallway that stretched the full length of the building. Each portal had a number painted on it, and those near the front bore names as well. The names stopped about halfway down the hall.

“Take your pick,” the Texan said. “Each suite’s got two beds and a private bathroom. You can probably drag a couple more beds in from another empty unit.”

“Eh, one’s enough,” Nick said suggestively. Rochelle giggled; his male teammates flushed. Jesse, however, shook her head.

“Y’all realize how thin these walls are?”

The conman made a dismissive _tsk_ noise. “I don’t even mean for that. Just sleeping.”

Her disapproving look did not fade. Ellis, still pink about the cheeks, nudged his lover’s arm.

“We oughta have four beds anyway, just in case,” he said. “What if somebody comes in?”

“Yeah, like that’s gonna happen,” Nick retorted sarcastically, but Coach put his foot down before their argument could escalate.

“We take four beds,” he decreed. “Now get yo’ asses in gear and pick a damn room. I wanna lie down.”

They took the one that was closest to the door, out of consideration for Coach’s bum leg. The others paired up to haul more beds into their own unit, which was just about big enough to fit three in the first room and one in the second. The only other things in their new digs were a pair of electric lanterns, a battery-powered alarm clock, and the rough-hewn bedside tables they rested on. The corrugated iron walls should have made it grim and uncomfortable, but compared to most of the places they’d slept lately, it was practically luxury. There was even an old rug on the concrete floor, giving it a sense of warmth.

Coach relaxed onto one of the beds with a heavy, pained sigh, and the others arranged themselves around the room. The younger men, safe with the door closed, sat close together on a mattress. Ellis rested his head on Nick’s shoulder; the conman pulled a long-suffering expression and took his partner’s hat off to keep it from poking him in the face. The two women took over the third bunk, Jesse leaning back on her arms and Rochelle folded up to hug her knees. The air grew quiet.

Their injured leader somberly regarded his team, feeling unpleasantly useless. Even worried as he was about Ellis and Rochelle’s fragile state, the odd, clinging fog in his mind kept him from coming up with a way to help them. Now that he thought of it, he hadn’t been able to help his cousin, either. The knowledge only made his heart sink farther. Not even the pastor’s prayer was enough to keep his soul from withering, just the slightest bit.

Ellis, Rochelle, and Nick were also wrapped up in their own thoughts, but unlike Coach, their ruminations centered on themselves rather than each other. The mechanic’s crisis of faith mixed seamlessly with his fear of being revealed as bi amongst hostile strangers, overshadowing any excitement he had about the Island’s infrastructure. Fortunately he could control it this time, Nick’s solid warmth at his side providing a grounding influence. Instead of panicking, he merely nibbled gently at his bottom lip, trying to figure out how he was going to show a normal face to the people outside for the whole time. It was strange; in this peaceful haven, he couldn’t quite find the optimism that had carried him through the hell outside. It was elusive, like his feelings for Nick had been for so long, and he could only hope he’d get it back quickly. It was his only way to cope, and without it, he didn’t know how he’d survive in a Flu-ravaged world. The thought made his heart threaten to start racing again; he gripped his partner’s hand a little tighter.

Rochelle cautiously explored her own mental state, trying not to be sucked into the vortex of unreality that had claimed her before. Being able to see all three of her teammates helped. She knew, explicitly, that the men were all tough enough to be fine without her, but did she have the strength to make it without them? The resolve and warrior spirit she’d developed while fighting through the South only applied to zombies, apparently. When it came to _living_ people… suddenly she couldn’t bear being apart from the guys, but the prospect of seeing her family almost made her sick. Not because she didn’t want to be reunited, but because of the fear that swamped her when she thought of what might have happened to them. She could tell herself that they’d had plenty of time to flee all she wanted, but the terror of not knowing for sure lurked darkly in the back of her mind. Not to mention the chilling feeling that they wouldn’t want her back after all she’d been through. That she’d changed so much that she wouldn’t fit in anymore. On some level she knew these fears were baseless, but that didn’t stop them from haunting her.

For his part, Nick continued to wrestle with Coach’s words. He could act the part of steadfast teammate just fine in front of Susanne if it meant getting what he wanted, but why did he feel so strongly about keeping the group together? Was it for his own comfort, or Rochelle’s? Speaking of which, why had learning that she was in trouble made him so frantic that morning? It had given him the same surge of adrenaline he’d gotten when Ellis nearly got jumped by that goddamn Einstein of a hunter, or the first time they’d encountered a tank. Maybe he was starting to claim her after all. Hell if he knew why, though, and he still couldn’t relate to her very much. And then there was Coach, with whom he had only the most tenuous of connections. But he’d already gotten a foot in that particular door…

“Hey, Coach.”

“Hmm?”

“Is it okay to talk about your kid now?”

The older man sighed heavily and ran a hand over his head. “I s’pose. What d’you wanna know?”

The others perked up slightly to listen. Nick paused to put his words in the right order, trying to avoid sounding like an ass.

“Just… What was he like, Before? As a little tyke, y’know? What’d you do together?”

All attention turned to Coach, whose deep brown eyes grew misty with bittersweet recollection. He cleared his throat and took a deep breath.

“Kevin was a beautiful boy. Took after his momma like that. We use’ta teach him all about Mexico, since that’s where Maria was born.” His voice wobbled a little at the mention of his wife, but he continued. “She talked Spanish around him an’ by his fifth birthday he could speak it better’n me. I taught him how’ta play football, baseball… But he never really got into ‘em. He liked science better. Big fan of dinosaurs.”

Ellis smiled. “Hey, who ain’t?”

“What was his favorite?” Nick asked. Coach actually chuckled at that.

“T-Rex, just like all the kids. We went up to the Natural History Museum in New York City once. He brought his little journal and took notes on everything, all serious like some kinda baby paleontologist. It was cute as shit.”

“What’s your favorite memory with him?” asked Rochelle, trying not to conflate Kevin with her nephews. Sam liked dinosaurs, too.

“Oof,” Coach sighed, looking thoughtful. “That’s a tough one. I guess the day he was born don’t count… I gotta say the first time we went hikin’, just him and me. He’d just turned six an’ everything was a damn miracle of nature. He tired himself out runnin’ around, lookin’ at all the critters an’ trees an’ climbin’ on every rock he could reach. I had t’ carry him back to the car.”

Nick felt a sorrow lance through his heart that almost wiped out the satisfaction of having hit empathetic paydirt. He attempted a hesitant joke anyway. “I guess I got lucky, only having a two-year-old. Much lighter.”

It wasn’t the time for laughter, but the others at least managed weak smiles.

Coach understood what the conman was trying to do, and though it was difficult, began to tell stories. He told them about Kevin’s earlier years, when he was Rebecca’s age: his first time eating chocolate, a love of which was something he shared with his dad; the mess he’d made when he got into his mother’s art supplies; the time his parents had stayed up all night to watch over him during a bout of chicken pox. Coach even talked of the monsters and boogeymen he’d had to “scare out” of Kevin’s room, and the books he’d read until the toddler nodded off at night.

Ellis, Rochelle, and Jesse listened quietly for the most part, asking gentle questions now and again to flesh out the tale. Nick, though, did not speak at all, choosing to let the words pour like water into the empty spaces of his heart. They resonated with memories of his own child – not the same, but close. Rebecca had collected rocks rather than bugs, and instead of bedtime stories insisted that her daddy to sing to her as she went to sleep. The songs rose unbidden to the surface of Nick’s mind, catching in his throat as the melodies tried to soar again.

Both older men’s eyes were stinging by the time Coach reached the end of his endurance. Nick dwelled on the grief of shattered fatherhood, aching with sadness but subtly pleased that he’d found commonality at last. He could never bring Rebecca back, but maybe – just maybe – he could help the Georgian reunite with his son. It was as good a place as any to start forging a bond between them.

The clock said it was just past three, which didn’t feel right at all. It should have been late at night and utterly silent, not midafternoon with muted sounds of life filtering through the walls. The room was still wrapped in a forlorn hush, though, and unsurprisingly, Ellis was first to break it.

“I still gotta check Toby out. Anybody wanna come with me?” He squeezed his partner’s hand, a gesture of support meant to ease the melancholy he felt in the slump of Nick’s shoulders.

There was a beat in which nobody answered, but the question lifted some of the gloom. Rochelle unfolded herself to stretch out her legs.

“Sure, sweetie.”

“Yeah, I’ll tag along,” Nick answered, not wanting to remain stuck in his introspection any longer.

“I oughta give my leg a break,” Coach sighed, and turned to Jesse. “Wouldja mind keepin’ me company in here?”

The Texan smiled, glad for a chance to get to know the fourth member of the team a little better. “Absolutely.”

The other survivors stood to make their way back to their car, but before leaving the safe haven of the room Nick pulled Ellis close for a long, tight hug. He buried his face in the mechanic’s soft curls and breathed deep for a moment, profoundly grateful for the man who’d come to help him heal the scars on his heart. After one last squeeze he planted a strong kiss on Ellis’ forehead, replaced his hat, and followed him outside.

Maybe the apocalypse wasn’t so bad, after all.


	28. Chapter 28

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I LIVE.
> 
> CW for panic attacks, etc.

The sound of the barracks door closing filtered back to the room where Coach and Jesse still sat. It was quiet for a moment in the echo, until Coach shifted tiredly on the bed.

“So,” he said in the significant way that signaled a new topic. “You know more ‘bout me than most folks do, now. Tell me ‘bout yo’self, Jesse.”

“Ain’t all that much to tell,” she sighed. “Parents. Brother. White picket fence. Pretty borin’, honestly.”

“Ya don’t seem too worried for ‘em.”

“Nah. Connor’s on the Korean border. Our parents were on vacation in New Zealand. They’re probably still there.” Jesse rubbed idly at her right shoulder, and rested her left hand there as if she’d forgotten about it. “They’re more worried for me than I am for them, I reckon.”

Coach considered this with a faraway look on his face, then blinked slowly and kept his eyes pinched shut for a moment before looking at his companion again. “Well… how’re ya likin’ it here? What kinda shit has Susanne got’chu doin’?”

Jesse noted the slight drag to his words, as though he were reluctant to say them, and the persistent crease to his brow. Her instincts threw up warning signs, but she didn’t let it show as she gave a tactically crafted answer.

“Well, it sure beats bein’ elsewhere these days, in general.” She smiled openly, but Coach merely twitched the corner of his mouth. “I’m mostly on patrol – today’s one of my days off, which is why y’all got saddled with me.” Another smile, another halfhearted attempt at one. “A couple times I got daycare… oh, and once they gave me kitchen duty. God, that was a disaster.”

When Coach still did not respond favorably, she let her cheerful expression morph into sympathetic concern, and subtly adjusted her posture until her elbows rested on her knees. “Don’t worry. There’s plenty to do around here, even if you’re on crutches. Mendin’ clothes like you said, but the lil’ ones love hearin’ new stories, and we always need folks to handle inventory…” She trailed off as Coach shrugged listlessly.

“Whatever.”

“Hey, don’t beat yourself up about it,” Jesse chided. “Y’all’ve been under a lot of pressure for a long time. It ain’t too suprisin’ that you’re feelin’ worn out.”

“I dunno…” Coach hung his head a little, shoulders slumping, and touched his injured leg. “That goddamn hunter sure fucked me up good. I can’t even think right.”

“What do you mean?” Jesse prodded quietly.

All the air left his lungs in a heavy rush, and he spoke as though he were talking to himself. “It’s… it’s like swimmin’ through molasses. I keep comin’ back t’how much I’m feelin’ like a useless sack a’ shit… Ro’s right, I can’t fight anymore. I’m dead weight.”

“Fightin’ ain’t the only measure of people. Not even out here. And you’re gonna heal up soon, get right back out there with your team.”

He shook his head slowly, expressionless, staring into space. “This ain’t gonna heal. Not enough. I can feel it.”

“How ‘bout we let the docs worry about your prognosis,” Jesse said, gentle and encouraging. “For now you just have to rest and relax. Remember what relaxin’ is?” Finally, a slight crinkling of his face, the shadow of a real smile. “What’s your fancy? Books, games, a nap?”

Coach seemed to reanimate his own body, raising his head and running a hand over where his hair used to be. “What kinda games you got?”

A few minutes later Jesse returned from the rec hall in Canteen Two with some books and a couple of brightly colored boxes. She let the conversation drift from rules and strategy to inane, lighthearted topics, regaling her companion with the latest Island gossip and tales of bygone college shenanigans. Coach’s mood gradually improved, especially after more doses of painkiller and antibiotic delivered by a harried-looking Steve. Afterwards, Coach picked up a book, and Jesse noticed that he was actually chuckling at the funny bits this time.

She lay back, fingers laced together behind her head, gazing pensively at the ceiling as she mulled over what she’d learned. First Rochelle, then Ellis, now Coach… She’d have to scope Nick out, too, but even if he was holding up all right, she still had her work cut out for her. She absently shifted to draw and toy with her knife, noting a thin sheen of grease left by Rochelle’s filthy hair. A polishing was definitely in order.

She was distracted from the shimmering steel by the sound of a snore. Coach had quickly succumbed to the Percocet with his book splayed open on his chest, rising and falling in time with his breath. Jesse smiled softly and put her weapon away, rising carefully from the bed to turn off the light. She took the games with her as she tiptoed out the door, combat boots silent on the concrete.

She found the others gathered loosely around their car. Ellis had apparently finished his inspection, and looked none too happy about what he’d found. As she approached she heard him explaining, the words “busted suspension” standing out by the dull tone in which he said them. Nick’s bearing indicated discomfort and a little shame; Rochelle’s, resignation. Jesse strolled abreast of the mechanic with sympathy already prepared, and briefly pushed her side against his in a gentle nudge.

“Don’t worry, bro, I’m sure you can fix it.”

Ellis jumped a little before registering her presence, then took his hat off just long enough to wipe the sweat off his forehead. “Heh. I know I can, but that ain’t the issue. The issue is that I don’t got any replacement parts, or the equipment ta repair the springs ‘n shit. I mean, we can drive on it for now, but the rattlin’s just gonna get worse an’ it’ll ruin the alignment, might start warpin’ the brakes…”

“So we’ll just find the parts we need in the city,” Rochelle interrupted before he lost them all in shop talk. “Like you said, we’re in no rush.”

Jesse shrugged. “So long as y’all bring back enough shit to make Sarge and Susanne happy, I’m sure the patrols won’t mind if you pick up a few things for yourselves here and there. It’ll be fine. Not like this old girl’s gonna explode on you, is she?”

The mechanic snorted with amusement. “Nah. Ain’t nothin’, like, _catastrophic_ wrong with her – engine block ain’t cracked, serpentine an’ timin’ belts are fine…”

It was Nick’s turn to cut him off. “So if you’re done with this, what do we do now?”

“Uh… Nothin’, I guess. Kick back for a bit? I…” A touch of shocked bewilderment flickered across his face. “Shit, what _do_ we do?”

Jesse stretched broadly, directing the others’ attention to her. “I can think of a few things,” she said with a cheerful grin.

First, there were some more errands to take care of. They quietly stocked their quarters with changes of clothes, careful not to wake Coach. Next they became reacquainted with the magic of toothpaste, which was nearly a religious experience for them; Rochelle in particular seemed at risk of using the whole tube all by herself. Jesse also managed to lay hands on a pair of shears to tidy up their hair. It was far from a professional job, but when she was done Nick wasn’t so shaggy, Rochelle’s fuzz was a little less awkward, and Ellis didn’t look like a tumbleweed in a hat anymore. All this had the survivors feeling more human than they’d been in a long time – but also profoundly odd, like they didn’t belong. Like they were pretending.

Jesse buoyed them through the rest of the day the same way she’d done for their older teammate: Canteen Two provided ample opportunity for games and idle conversation. A few beers and subtly crafted questions soon had the younger two survivors bantering cheerfully, and at some point Ellis started gushing about his little sister; the family stories nearly sent Rochelle back into that morning’s distress, but Jesse artfully coaxed her out of it without even seeming to do so. Soon the combined efforts of the younger pair lifted their companion’s spirits, and she got back in the groove of things. Jesse soaked it all up eagerly, taking dozens of mental notes all the while.

Nick’s continued jumpiness around other people convinced her that going to dinner with the rest of the Island’s residents would be a tactical error. She let the end of the regular workday pass unmarked, and only suggested that they eat once the rec hall began to fill up with off-duty farmers, engineers, and craftsfolk.

Outside, the oncoming night lay thick within the walls of the fortress. As the survivors crossed into Canteen One, banks of harsh lights awoke with muffled cracks to banish the dusk. They illuminated a small knot of people gathering in the center of the compound, the sight of which put Rochelle, Ellis, and especially Nick on edge. They hurried to get out of the open, leaving Jesse with a concerned twist to her mouth.

On the way back to their quarters after dinner they could hear exuberant sounds from the crowd. Four people seemed taller than the others, like they were standing on something, and over the chatter and cheers rose the twang of guitars and crash of drums. It drew Ellis’ attention like a laser, and Jesse paused beside him.

“That’s the band I was tellin’ you about. Matt, Sam, Quinn, and Tyler – they were all on first scout shift this mornin’, so you didn’t meet ‘em at lunch. I can introduce you later when they’re not bringin’ down the house.”

“Heh. Sure.” Ellis shook his head slightly, and Jesse punched him gently in the shoulder.

“C’mon. Let’s go see how Coach is doin’.”

* * *

 

Coach was not where they’d left him. Panic was avoided by Jesse’s correct observation that he’d probably been returned to the medbay; they scurried back there, but Viper Three was still in surgery. Five people in scrubs and masks were working around the table; three others washed and sanitized tools, swapped bloody rags for clean, and generally assisted the surgeons. Nick, Rochelle, and Ellis could see Coach in one of the beds in the back, but couldn’t reach him without getting in the way. Fortunately that glimpse was still enough to calm Rochelle down, so they soon retreated and left the medical team to work in peace. Jesse followed a little behind, her previously calm demeanor replaced by worry. It looked so odd on her that Ellis had to ask.

“You okay?”

She seemed startled by the question, but didn’t try to hide her upset.

“I’m on Viper team, too. Katie – the one hurt back there – she’s my friend. I didn’t realize how bad it was before.”

“…Oh.”

Their feet were heavy as they walked quietly down the row of barracks. When the group was about halfway to the family quarters, Jesse slowed to a stop in front of bunk three.

“I’m on duty again tomorrow morning, so I’m gonna try to get some sleep. See y’all in the afternoon, probably.”

Ellis and Rochelle glanced at each other, then back to Jesse.

“Okay,” Ellis said with a concerned smile. “Take it easy.”

“Sleep well,” Rochelle added, and reached out to squeeze Jesse’s shoulder in gentle comfort. The answering blush was hidden in the shadow of the building.

“Thanks. Y’all have a good night, too.”

She slipped into the barracks, and the three survivors resumed their trek. The crowd was still milling about farther down the courtyard and the music still played, but it seemed almost threatening without Jesse by their side. Nick walked slightly faster the closer they got to it, and entered their quarters with an audible sigh of relief. Ellis and Rochelle were close on his heels.

The door cut off most – but not all – of the noise as it shut behind them. Nick turned on the light, revealing the tight, awkward expressions on each of their faces. They stood stiffly for a moment, making conscious efforts to relax and put their weapons down.

A few seconds later Ellis startled the others with a sudden and vigorous shake of his head. He pulled his rifle off his shoulder, dropped it on the ground, and threw himself face-first onto a bed with a meaty “ _oof._ ” His sprawl pushed his hat up by the bill to fall sideways onto the blankets.

The image got Nick to smile a little. He forced his hand off the butt of his pistol and stretched out his fingers.

“Welp,” he said, and Ellis rolled over to look at him. “Should we hit the hay? We’ve gotta be up early tomorrow, too.”

“I dunno,” Rochelle sighed, then winced as she worked some tension out of her neck. “I’m tired, but… This is all so weird. One day we’re alone, then the next…” She shivered. “I’m not sure I can sleep yet.”

There was a moment of silence as they processed this.

“Hey, Nick,” Ellis piped up. “How ‘bout we take a look-see at that notebook a’ yers? With all the shit from the computer?”

Nick shrugged.

“Sure. It’s, uh… It’s in the car, though…”

Ellis and Rochelle both spotted the signs of his discomfort as he trailed off. They looked at each other, then back at Nick, and chorused in unison:

“Let’s go.”

After one more tense round-trip across the courtyard they were back in their room. Nick sat on a bed between the other two with his notebook open in his hands, and began to decipher his own writing.

“Okay, this one’s a list of major evac points. The computer said that means they were big control centers, in charge of everything around ‘em. Let’s see, we’ve been through Georgia… Alabama’s got Montgomery, Hoover, Huntsville, Birmingham, Tuscaloosa, Dothan, Mobile… In Mississippi there’s Meridian, Jackson, yadda yadda yadda… It goes on, but I’m thinking capitol cities are probably our best bets for finding intel.”

“If they’re still standing,” Rochelle pointed out. “Something tells me that the Montgomery station isn’t in very good shape.”

“Right, right. There was a schedule in here somewhere…” Nick flipped through a few pages until he found one with the heading “Nov. Ops.”

“How the hell do ya read this chicken scratch? Looks like a buncha drunk roosters had a fight in a blueberry pie,” Ellis quipped, squinting at the messy ink marks. Nick shoved him over with an elbow to the ribs.

“Maybe you’re just illiterate, Overalls. Anyway. This one is obviously some kind of military operations plan, but I wasn’t sure what it meant when I wrote it down. Now I think I have an idea.” He pointed to a line that might have had the word _Montgomery_ in it. “Jesse said the bombing was three days ago. The date on this is November seventeenth. Is that around now?”

They fell silent again as they first did some mental math, then came to the conclusion that yep, holy shit, today must be the 20th. The realization was like an icy wind.

“…yeah, that’s about right,” Ellis murmured. Rochelle looked a little green.

“Okay, so,” Nick continued doggedly, “if _all_ these are bombing runs, then everything from Miami to Cleveland is blown to hell by now. In two weeks, the whole east coast’ll be gone too.”

Rochelle bolted to the restroom just in time to be violently sick.

The men followed immediately to steady her on either side of the toilet. Ellis cast his eyes about until he spotted a water glass next to the sink, and filled it for when it would be needed. Until then he tried to imitate what Jesse had done for him, repeating phrases like “that’s right, get it all out” and “breathe, nice an’ slow, there ya go…” He was rewarded for his efforts by a painfully tight grip on his arm.

Nick stayed kneeling on the floor, suddenly feeling a strange echo of something very, very old. He kept a hand on Rochelle’s back and made soothing noises, but was weirdly isolated from the proceedings as he tried to figure out why they seemed so familiar. Some aching combination of that morning, and what felt like the faint thread of a memory…

He bit the inside of his cheek to snap out of it, and focused instead on lightly massaging Rochelle’s back in broad, gentle circles.

She coughed and spat until she could breathe, rinsed her mouth out, and spat some more.

“S… sorry,” she panted. “I don’t –”

“Shh, sweetheart, it’s okay,” Nick said softly, and his chest hurt. “Your folks are fine. They left a long time ago.”

“We’re gonna find ‘em, Ro,” Ellis added. “Maybe there’s more in the notebook. Maybe it’ll tell us where they went.”

“Yeah, maybe we haven’t gotten to the good stuff yet.” Nick shifted back on his heels to give his aching knees some relief. “Wanna take a look, or do you need another minute?”

“Um…” Rochelle cleared her throat, took a sip of water, and exhaled hard. “Could you maybe bring it in here, just in case? …Please?”

Nick grabbed his notes; Ellis refilled the glass and flushed the toilet. Once all three sat on the floor, huddled close together for comfort, Nick resumed his lecture.

“So, one thing we know is that New Orleans isn’t the only place that survived. Those fighter jets have to be coming from somewhere, and since all these targets are east of the Mississippi, I figure the whole west is probably clear.” He paused, tilting his head a careful few degrees. “Hmm. Y’know the first place I’m going when we get outta here? … _Vegas_.”

His shit-eating grin coaxed weak smiles from his companions. Ellis’ lasted a bit longer than Rochelle’s.

“You’re not, though, right?” she asked, a little plaintively. “You’ll stay with us. I mean… You could get hurt out there alone.”

This last statement was almost defensive under a fragile imitation of sternness. Nick felt that tug on his memory again, mixed with an oddly flattered, satisfied touch of gratitude. Now that he was open to the idea, he could see plain as day how right Coach was. It should have bothered him – but he felt warm instead, and it came through in his voice.

“It’s a joke, Ro. Of course we’re sticking together.” He met her eyes for only a moment before consulting his notebook again. “Right, so… There wasn’t any other shit listed for this side of the river after the end of the month. The next one’s just ‘April fifteenth, recon.’ At least, that’s all I wrote down.”

His brow furrowed, and he turned the page. The expression of concentration instantly became one of ice-cold hatred.

“Oh, yeah. The chain of command.”

He’d copied out the whole command structure of the plague response, CEDA and military alike. The lists were separated first by organization, then state; then came the names, each with a city and a letter code next to it.

“I remember these.” Nick pointed to the codes. “ _CD_ is confirmed dead. _M_ is missing. _S_ is safe – not many of those, but they’ve got current station assignments, too. Useful. _KOS_ …” His breath hitched, and he finished in a hushed, dead tone. “KOS means kill on sight.”

Ellis and Rochelle stared, eyes wide. Every single name in the CEDA section was either dead, or KOS. None safe. None simply missing. They were all targets.

“Jesus,” Rochelle whispered. “Aren’t they supposed to be working together?”

“Somebody. Is going. To pay.” Ellis spoke quietly, deliberately, voice low and dangerous. “I am gonna make whoever’s in charge of this bleed like a stuck pig.”

“Not if I get there first,” Nick growled, and stabbed the page with a finger. A single name had a line all to itself: the only one with no city, and no code. “General Leland Davis. I already know what I’m gonna do to him, but if I told you, you’d run screaming.”

The way he said it made it absolutely clear that he was not exaggerating in the slightest, and the others believed him without question. The fear in their eyes and in their silence was familiar, almost comfortable to Nick’s former selves – but coming from his teammates, it was a rusty blade slammed between his ribs. He breathed deep and dragged the murderous look off his face.

“So, ah… Yeah. The last thing I got is a list of refugee camps, but New Orleans isn’t on it. The closest one to here is all the way in Kansas City.”

Rochelle swallowed hard. “I guess that’s where we’re going, then.”

“When we can,” Ellis sighed, relaxing from the tense posture he’d worked himself into. “I reckon gettin’ over the river ain’t exactly gonna be easy.”

“We’ll cross that bridge when we get to it,” Nick replied firmly, raised an eyebrow, then grinned in another attempt to lighten the mood. “Damn, I never thought I’d get to use that expression so literally!”

He glanced at Rochelle again, and was pleased to note the amused crinkle of her eyes. She looked a bit less like a ghost, too.

Ellis laughed outright, but interrupted himself with a huge, jaw-breaking yawn. Nick smirked.

“Tired, sport?”

“You can’t prove nothin’.”

“How about you, Ro? Feeling a little better?”

“Yeah.”

“Let’s get to bed, then,” Nick declared. He pushed against the wall to lever himself upright, and offered both hands down for the others to take. “Hey, we can even clean up first…”

Despite their earlier reintroduction to hygiene, they still opened the cabinet with something like reverence. They divvied up soap, deodorant, toothbrushes, and toothpaste; a good-natured but earnest squabble ended with Nick and Rochelle taking turns at the sink, while Ellis waited impatiently for his. If they forgot the rules about conserving water, well… Nobody was going to tell.

Once freshly scrubbed and changed ( _pajamas, holy shit!_ ), Nick and Ellis pushed two beds together while Rochelle snuggled down under the covers of another. The men made a small production of getting the sheets arranged right, and another of figuring out how not to become stuck in the crevice between mattresses. Everyone got more or less comfortable; Rochelle set the alarm clock and turned out the bedside light.

Here, darkness and quiet did not go hand-in-hand. Dull white noise from outside meant that, for a time, sleep was absent from the little family suite in which the survivors lay. Beyond the walls of Liberty Island, silence meant safety; with traffic at a permanent standstill and the animals long gone, the only sounds came from infected or the weather. And as they’d learned, loud weather was basically the same as infected anyway. Even last night’s scant few hours of inescapable, drop-dead unconsciousness were enough to keep them awake now, alert, hands twitching next to the weapons propped against their bedframes.

It felt like eons before the crowd began to slowly dwindle. Its looming presence transitioned seamlessly into nothingness, and blessedly took something else with it. Rochelle gradually stopped fussing, and her breath became slow and even – but hers was the only one to do so.

After a few minutes, Ellis sat up and touched Nick’s shoulder. The older man rose as though he’d been waiting for it, and followed his lover into the other room. They sat together on the small twin bed, in silence until Ellis got his thoughts in order.

“So, uh. About earlier… What Ro said, ‘bout us havin’ panic attacks?” He shifted uncomfortably, nerves stretched taut with shame and anticipation. “I… There’s this girl…”

Nick’s poker instincts kicked in, and his face maintained a perfectly neutral expression of concern. Underneath it, his stomach clenched.

“Yeah?”

Ellis bit his lip slightly, and cringed.

“She… she was flirtin’ with me, like, bedroom eyes an’ shit…” He snorted briefly in a moment of black amusement. “Heh. Before, I reckon I’d’a hit that faster’n Jimmy Gibbs Junior won the ’07 Speedway. But right now? It’s goddamn terrifyin’. What’m I sp’osed ta tell her? I ain’t so great at lyin’, but I sure’s hell can’t tell the truth, an’ I don’t wanna make her upset or nothin’ cuz we dunno how long we’re gonna be here an’…”

His accent grew thicker the more upset he got, and his breath was becoming shallow and rapid – bad sign. Nick pulled him into a gentle side-hug that drew the mechanic’s head close against him.

“Shh, kiddo, it’s okay… We’ll work it out. It’s gonna be fine…” He began to hum, letting the sound reverberate like a cat’s purr through his chest and into Ellis’ body. Soon the younger man’s gulps for air settled down so he could speak again.

“I’m just… I’m scared, man. Ro said ta tell her I got somebody waitin’ ‘cross the river, but like, then I’m gonna hafta make shit up an’ keep the story straight the whole time. I dunno if I can do that. Oh, oh, an’ the worst bit…” He sat up with a watery, humorless smile. “I went an’ got m’self on laundry duty tomorrow. With her. All day. Like a goddamn idiot.”

Nick held his tongue as jealousy curled around it, thick and rotten. He scrambled to find his ice, the cold and impartial judge that would surely know what to do. It was perversely absent.

“Nick?”

“Y… yeah. I’m here. Mostly.” Ah, there were the cards. They’d help. He set the jealous part of himself the task of playing solitaire. “What do you want me to do about this, El?”

Ellis gave him an expression that, in the light, would have been dangerously close to puppy-dog eyes. “I just figured you’d got a lotta experience with this kinda shit. Maybe had an easy way out. That an’… well, ya got a right ta know. Bein’ my… my partner, an’ all.”

His blush was nearly audible. Nick felt a surge of reassuring warmth push his jealous self back a little further.

“I… appreciate that.” He squeezed Ellis’ shoulders slightly tighter, then let go to lean back on his arms and stare at the invisible ceiling. “But I won’t be much help. All I can really tell you is how to play her like a goddamn piano. If you wanted to rob her blind, fuck her senseless, if she knew a secret you had to get your hands on… When she’s got the hots for you, you’re halfway to owning her.” The words were bitter, and he wished he didn’t know how true they could be. Wished he hadn’t taken advantage of that truth so very many times before.

He felt irredeemably filthy.

“Well I ain’t that kinda guy. An’ I don’t think _you_ are anymore, neither.”

Ellis’ voice had layers that would take days to peel back, but all together were a hammer to Nick’s chest. If that cold, in-control self were to appear at any point, now’d be the time.

It did not oblige.

“I sure hope not,” Nick failed to say firmly. He cleared his throat. “Whatever. Let’s deal with what’s in front of us. How do you want this to play out, kiddo?”

The mattress creaked as Ellis shifted. “I don’t wanna piss her off. I don’t wanna piss _you_ off. I don’t wanna do nothin’ could even _smell_ like cheatin’. And I sure’s _shit_ don’t want Susanne or anybody findin’ out ‘bout you an’ me.”

“Sure, and d’you want a pony too?” Nick snapped defensively, and instantly regretted it. He grimaced, grateful for the dark. “Look, sweetheart. I know you, and I know the game. All I care about is making sure you’re okay – even if that means you end up sleeping with this chick. Don’t worry about me. I’ll be fine.”

His jealous self instantly reappeared to shriek at him like a banshee, putting the lie to every word.

“You don’t mean that, Nick.”

“Yes, I do.” _No you don’t!_ “This is me giving you permission to do whatever you gotta do to be happy. _Ego te absolvo_.” He waved his hand in the general shape of a cross to accompany the Latin phrase. For all the good it did.

“Nick -” Ellis checked his rising voice back to a whisper. “Nick, gettin’ with her ain’t gonna make me happy. An’ I don’t care what kinda horsecrap yer spoutin’ right now – that’s all it is. Horsecrap. I ain’t no kinda goddamn sunovabitch that’d hurt’cha like that.” He sounded like he was the one who’d been hurt.

Nick squeezed his eyes shut as though it would help him see. “Well… It still applies if she jumps you,” he joked weakly. “Don’t beat yourself up over it.”

Ellis’ sigh was exasperated, but it was miles better than panic.

“I still call bullshit. An’ it ain’t a plan.”

“I’m working on it,” Nick murmured, turning their conversation over in his mind. “If faking it isn’t in the cards, then you either avoid her like the Flu, or let her down. You’ve got options for how to do that. There’s the Canadian girlfriend, which you said is out… You could tell her you’re still mourning your last fling or just plain fucked up from the apocalypse, which isn’t exactly wrong…”

“But what if she thinks she can, like, _fix_ me? Y’know, like in the movies? If she keeps pushin’ for –”

“Then we’ll handle it.” Oh, thank God, he finally sounded like he knew what he was doing. “If she’s that much of a bitch, then hey, you’ve got an excuse to keep away from her.”

“…I guess.”

“Anyway, if that still feels too much like lying, then don’t bother with giving a reason. Just stonewall her. ‘No means no’ and all that crap. If she’s curious, tough shit.” He thought for a moment, and added: “I’d tell you to be nice when you shut her down, but you haven’t got it in you to be a dick anyway.”

Ellis was silent long enough to make Nick worry he’d said something wrong. But when the mechanic made noise again, it was a quiet laugh.

“How come when _you_ say it, it makes sense?” His warmth grew closer, and one of his hands found Nick’s thigh. “I’ve been chasin’ my tail like a dumbass dog since mornin’, an’ here ya go just makin’ out like it’s easy.”

Nick grinned, on an even keel at last. “Because it _is_ easy. You’re just an idiot redneck who can’t talk to girls.”

“Oh yeah? Well yer a stuck-up old man with a face like nine miles a’ dirt road.”

“Dumbshit hillbilly.”

“Slimy sonuvabitch.”

“Cletus.”

“Yankee.”

“Hick.”

“Asshole.”

There wasn’t far for their faces to go, and each could feel the other’s affectionate smile on his own lips. Traces of mint lingered on their tongues, as well as something wholly new that they slowed down to appreciate; with a soft touch here, a caress of the cheek there, and pinpoint focus on how their skin felt where it met, the atmosphere changed from teasing to nearly romantic fast enough to give them whiplash.

“Wow,” Nick whispered huskily when they paused for breath. “That was… Damn. You taste amazing.”

Ellis seemed to think the same of him. He tilted his head again to match their lips together, almost lazily, dragging out every motion, and Nick felt no need to hurry it up or make it sexual. The moment was perfect exactly as it was: just the two of them, no ground-in dirt or blood to mask their scents, none of the perpetual morning breath they’d grown used to. It was like a whole new experience; a second first kiss.

Nick nearly whined when it ended.

Ellis gave him one last gentle nuzzle. “We oughta hit the sack. Early start tomorrow.”

The older man sighed, still a bit punch-drunk and wanting to stay that way.

“I guess.”

They returned to the main room, with the bed big enough for two. Ellis curled up on his side, and Nick slid under the covers to wrap around him from behind.

“G’night, El,” he whispered, and kissed the back of his lover’s neck.

His arm fell asleep long before he did.


	29. Chapter 29

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Grad school is a thing. If you're reading this, I love you.
> 
> CW for depression, anxiety, drug use, and all that fun stuff.

The day nearly began with them all shooting each other.

A harsh, pulsing scream filled the little room and redoubled itself between the tight walls. Theirs wasn’t the only alarm clock blaring before sunrise, either – faint echoes from other suites forced their way in to join the cacophony. Rochelle managed to slam the off button and fumbled with the light until she could see. It revealed Nick and Ellis, bolt upright and halfway out of bed respectively. Their eyes were feral over the sights of their guns.

“Jesus Christ,” Ellis rasped. He put down his rifle and began to detangle the sheets’ clinging grip on his legs. “That’s gonna take some gettin’ used to.”

“Rise and fuckin’ shine,” Nick seemed to agree. He dropped his Magnum on the bed and leaned forward, rubbing his eyes with the heels of his hands. “I’ll take Coach’s ugly mug in my face over that damn thing any day.”

Rochelle got a second unpleasant surge of adrenaline at the mention of Coach. She looked around frantically until she remembered: first, where she was and why she was there; then where Coach was and why _he_ was _there_ ; and finally, why the hell she was waking up to an actual alarm clock, which she looked at blankly.

“Guess we oughta get movin’, though,” Ellis said. He picked up his gun and bag automatically, and was halfway to the door before realizing that he was barefoot and in pajamas. Rochelle snorted with amusement at his expression.

“There’s a few more steps to waking up today,” she said, though her own instincts also clamored to hit the road immediately. “Like – oh, I don’t know… shoes?”

The morning ritual of brushing their teeth, washing their faces, and changing into proper clothes felt alien. A part of Rochelle rejoiced in being so clean, but another part – a larger one – felt unworthy and ashamed. Like she shouldn’t be doing this. Like she didn’t deserve it.

She looked at her teammates for reassurance. Ellis had his eyes blissfully closed as he savored the flavor of toothpaste, but Nick… Judging by the look on his face and the hesitation in his movements, he wasn’t on top of his game this morning either. Rochelle wished she knew how to fix it.

Breakfast was a new kind of trial. The canteen was half-full of the early risers: scouts, sentries, and first-shift workers. Nick claimed the very end of one of the corner tables, closest to the door, and the younger two couldn’t help but follow. They were positioned to avoid as many people as possible, and nearly everyone in the building was quiet and groggy anyway, but it still felt awfully crowded.

The tension showed in the set of Nick’s shoulders and the way his hands twitched at loud noises. Ellis was on edge too, but less so. On him, a slight hunch reflected a correspondingly slight anxiety; the same posture on Nick communicated near-panic.

“I’ll be right back, boys,” Rochelle said gently. The others rose with her, nervousness pushed aside by concern.

“Where’re ya goin’? We ain’t eaten yet.”

“Exactly. I’m getting some food. I’ll be fine, I can see you from over there. Relax.”

They sank back into their seats, still wearing worried expressions. Rochelle braced herself, repeating in her head that there was nothing to be scared of, and turned to the serving line.

It took a few glances over her shoulder, but she managed to get there. She loaded up two trays with the rationed amount of eggs, canned fruit, and toast, and carefully balanced them back to her team. The men were surprised when she placed one in front of each of them. Nick seemed to go a little pale, while Ellis was merely confused.

“We can do it by ours-,” he began, but Rochelle shushed him.

“Too slow, sweetie. Better luck next time.”

Rochelle left him to trail off an awkward “Thank you…” behind her and went to get her own breakfast. The second trip was easier.

Rochelle could only distract herself from the inevitable for so long. A few minutes before six, the whole canteen rose as one to turn in their cutlery and get to work. The survivors, lagging behind the pack, followed suit. They paused outside the door.

“I gotta go,” Nick said shortly. “See you later, I guess.”

He squared his shoulders, lifted his chin, and started off for his muster point. He even managed to seem confident while he did it. Ellis and Rochelle watched him go, but the crowd near the gates was a sea of khaki and camouflage. They lost him almost the instant he joined it.

“Welp.” Ellis rubbed the back of his neck. “This is gonna be ‘bout as much fun as a funeral.”

Rochelle winced. “We should get to where we’re supposed to be,” she said. It came out much more firmly than she felt. Ellis looked at her, and she saw fear in his eyes.

“You sure you’re gonna be okay?” he asked.

She put a hand on his shoulder and squeezed. “I’m good if you’re good.”

He swallowed hard, closed his eyes, and swept her up in a hug. It was tight and it was clingy, and Rochelle returned it before she even had time to be surprised. It lasted for all of a second, but when Ellis released her she felt much, much calmer.

He must have seen it in her face, because he relaxed a little, too. With a small, determined nod, he began the walk to the laundry.

That left Rochelle outside the canteen, alone. She breathed deeply and caught Ellis’ lingering scent: a musky warmth and the tang of anxious sweat cutting through the teenager-strength deodorant from their quarters. It was kind of nice. Brotherly. She memorized the shape of it and made it an anchor, a protected corner of her mind to run to. Only then did she turn towards the gardens.

They were more like a small farm, and needed as much attention as a large one. Frosts would still come to warm Alabama, and as the last of the carrots and kale were harvested, new crops were sown in the greenhouses to sustain the compound through winter. Wes gave Rochelle a brief rundown in a heavy Scottish burr.

“Ye can pull broccoli today. Tools are in the shed. Heads go in the basket, roots on the heap. Keep the leaves on.” He pointed to a field where broccoli stood in military rows for what seemed like miles. At the far corner of the patch, at the base of the compound wall, stood a large composting bin with rich soil spilling out the bottom. A quick glance around confirmed that there was one for every plot of land, and sometimes two. “Finish that lot, then come to me and I’ll decide what more to do wi’ ye. Aye?”

Rochelle nodded silently.

Her laconic answer seemed to please him, if a slightly less angry frown was any indication. “Get on wi’ ye, then.”

She collected gloves, shears, and a large basket from a nearby shed, then began her work. Five other people were harvesting, while three more assembled wood and plexiglass into the beginnings of a new greenhouse. As Rochelle tugged on the first thick broccoli stem, she thought about other ways to help the Island’s crops weather the season. If she focused on that, maybe she could ignore her solitude.

The work quickly developed a rhythm, and Rochelle gave her body autopilot while she pondered the problem of winter farming. Her mind found something useful in memories of her college days: her then-girlfriend had grown marijuana with some art students, hadn’t she? Rochelle struggled to recall snippets of conversation that had drifted through the reeking smoke in their dorm room. It would have been easier if she hadn’t been stoned silly at the time.

She was distracted by the realization that her basket was full, her arms were tired, and she wasn’t even halfway down a single row yet. She sighed, stood, and hauled her load of broccoli down to the compost heap. Midway through cutting off roots, she heard a familiar voice quietly call her name, and looked up so suddenly that she nearly removed a finger as well.

“Hey! Up here!”

A man stood on the walkway directly above her. With his freshly shorn hair and standard issue outfit he looked like any other sentry, but a snowy-white strip of cloth tied around his bicep drew Rochelle’s eye like a beacon. She smiled with relief.

“Hey, Nick. This your post?”

“Yeah. Nobody had a problem with me taking it. Apparently I’m downwind of the forge.” He smirked. “After the shit we’ve been breathing, this smoke is like goddamn perfume.”

“You should’ve come with me. Good clean dirt’s even better,” Rochelle said. The phrase unexpectedly stung – it reminded her of her mother.

“Rochelle, _please_. Gardening is beneath me.” Nick struck a haughty pose for a moment, waited for Rochelle’s giggle, and relaxed again. “I’ll come pull weeds with you next time. Okay, sweetheart?”

Rochelle felt another pang, and her smile waned. “If they let us stay inside again.”

They sighed in unison. Rochelle couldn’t make herself end the conversation yet; she didn’t want to go back to her solitary work. Nick somehow knew just what to say.

“Well, how about we get lunch together? They’ve gotta feed us, right?”

“They’d better,” Rochelle grumbled without malice. “Sounds good, Suit. Now get your eyes forward before we’re overrun.”

“Yes, ma’am!” Nick drawled with a smirk and a mock salute. He might have winked, too, but he was too high up for it to be clear.

They both resumed their tasks with a little more enthusiasm. If they noticed each other’s frequent comfort-seeking glances for the rest of the day, neither would admit it.

 

* * *

 

 

Ellis found Blue at the door of the laundry. She wore a grubby old t-shirt, jeans, and a warm, open smile.

“There’s my big strong helper! Let’s get started, the scouts must’ve danced in a hog pen last night.”

She opened the door and shoved two buckets into Ellis’ arms. Her briskness was slightly overwhelming.

“Uh… G’mornin’ to you, too…” he stammered.

Blue laughed. “Right, normal folks say hello to each other,” she said, grabbing buckets of her own. “I must’ve had too much coffee, I’m all over the place today. C’mon, we gotta fill the tubs!”

She bounced from the room before Ellis could point out that there was no coffee in the mess hall. Was this what he’d been like when his team had first met? If so, he owed the others an apology.

Blue enthusiastically hauled water from the river to the laundry tubs, hooked up the waterwheel to the heating elements, and pulled yesterday’s clean clothes down from the lines, thoroughly demonstrating to Ellis the correct procedure for each task. It seemed as though she took every opportunity to touch him, as well; she even guided his hands on the electric circuits, at which point Ellis was sure his panicked heart was audible all the way to the city. Blue didn’t seem to notice – she must not have been able to hear over the sound of her own voice.

It was not often that somebody could out-talk Ellis when he was nervous. Today he’d embraced the fact, and came prepared with all kinds of rambling speeches and calculated tangents designed to distract and evade. These were on top of his vast arsenal of Keith stories. If nobody had interrupted, he could’ve filibustered the U.S. Congress to insanity. With Blue, he could barely get a word in edgeways.

She’d grown up in Hartselle, Alabama. Her parents were between jobs right now but her daddy picked up day work in the city and her brothers Chris and Frankie were helping ma turn their hobby hogs into a little income, even though Chris was in trade school to become an electrician and Frankie had a weekend job scrubbing pots at the neighbors’ restaurant. Her BFF Stephanie was a total riot, she’d probably gotten evacuated, must’ve been; don’t know for sure about the rest of her friends, but Will had an off-road pickup and he always said…

Ellis couldn’t help getting caught up in her life. It wasn’t a taste of down-home so much as a tidal wave, and though he remained on guard, he happily let it wash over him. Her voice, strained though it was, was nice on the ears. Besides, the more she talked, the less Ellis would have to. He managed a few “uh-huh”s and “wow”s and, once, a “no kiddin’?”, but for the most part he kept quiet and took his stress out on the laundry.

What seemed like three hours later, Blue stopped for breath. By then Ellis felt like he’d known her for years, and the silence was almost comfortable.

Almost.

“So how ‘bout you, Ellis? Where’re you from?”

Ellis’ anxiety roared back to life, and he once more felt sick. He swallowed less firmly than he’d intended to, and scrabbled for the right things to say.

“Well, uh… I’m… from Savannah, an’…” His throat caught, all his prepared stories suddenly drying up.

Blue was quiet for an awkward moment, until it was clear that Ellis wasn’t going to finish his train of thought. Then she gave a little cough, and tried again. The pep in her voice was fragile.

“What’cha do for fun? A guy like you’s gotta play sports – wait, lemme guess: quarterback. I bet your team was champions every year, right? Got cheerleaders hangin’ all over ya?”

There it was. Ellis caught himself before actually vomiting, but it was close.

“Yeah, I played some football back in school,” he began, then stopped as his tongue seemed to wither away.

This was ridiculous.

He leaned his laundry paddle against the side of the tub, took two long, full breaths, and turned around.

Blue wasn’t nearly as good as Nick at poker faces. Ellis could see the hope – almost a hunger – in her eyes. He must have been more afraid at some point in his life, but right then, he wasn’t sure. It took more effort to open his mouth than it had to kill his second zombie, and the words stumbled over themselves in their manic rush to get out.

“Look, I think I know where you’re goin’ with this but I’m taken, okay, an’ I’m faithful an’ I’d really _really_ prefer to not talk about it. Sorry.” He cringed, imagination bracing for all kinds of horrible reactions and making him unpleasantly dizzy.

His declaration was met with silence, and he risked cracking open one eye. Blue regarded him sadly, not just with disappointment, but with sympathy and chagrin.

“No, Ellis, _I’m_ sorry,” she said gently. She sounded sincere for the first time all morning. “That was too brassy of me. Can we start again?”

Ellis was dumbfounded. This was not a scenario he’d prepared for.

“I. Uh. You’re not… I mean… What?”

“I was lookin’ at’cha like a piece of meat,” she confessed. “It’s kinda lonely here, everybody’s lost somebody an’ it’s all messier’n a butcher’s basement, emotionally speakin’. Then y’all drop outta the sky an’ I forget you’ve been through hell, too. So… friends?”

Ellis blinked once, then twice at the hand she extended. A huge smile took over his face as he closed the distance and offered his own.

“Yeah.”

The rest of the morning flew by in enthusiastic conversation, and Ellis had never had a more appreciative audience for his stories.

 

* * *

 

 

Hospital life was bleakly familiar. It was even the same leg. At first, he drifted in the warm fog of painkillers, as content as a man in traction could be. After a watery amount of time, he woke to the sounds of a quiet argument. It sounded like Steve was getting chewed out for something. Coach tried to interrupt.

“’Scuse me…” His mouth felt slushy. “Could I get a hand over here?”

The voices hushed. One last fierce whisper, and then movement. A presence at his bedside.

“Hey, man. You need the bathroom?”

“Yeah.”

The next thing he was aware of was noise. Time had passed while he’d slept the sleep of the drugged, and now there were more people around than he remembered. He hurt a lot. There was itching, too. That was good, right? He clenched the blanket and tried not to scratch. Someone scurried past with blood on their hands.

He woke again to pain and a tray of breakfast being placed beside him.

“Here ya go, buddy. Eat some’a that and you can have your medicine.”

The new orderly introduced himself as Theo and continued down the line of patients. Coach inhaled the food and waited impatiently for him to return. His leg _hurt_.

He put up with a morning examination. He half-listened to the staff talking at him. He stared blankly at the ceiling while they re-dressed his wound. It wasn’t even the painkillers making him spacey, since they’d switched him from opioids to ibuprofen. He just couldn’t find it within himself to care.

He only got the mothballs out of his head when Theo asked him a question.

“I said, d’you wanna go do somethin’ that ain’t lyin’ in here all day? You’re cleared for light work now.”

Coach thought about it. “Sure. I dunno. Whatever needs doin’.”

Theo looked suspiciously at him. “Lemme check.”

He conferred with a colleague. She pulled out a radio and conferred with someone else. The verdict was that daycare could use another supervisor, so it was back on the crutches and off across the Island again. Yet another lackey, whose name Coach forgot the moment he heard it, helped him get there. He was delivered like a package and left in the care of Ryan, the babysitter-in-chief.

“Good to have another pair of eyes in here,” he said, helping Coach inside. “There’s not that many of ‘em, but I only ever had to keep track of one at home.”

“Same,” Coach said, looking around.

A full barracks had been converted from a military space to a maternal one, and the difference from the rest of the compound induced a mild culture shock. There were pillows in bright colors, shelves of books for all ages, and bins of art supplies. The floor around an empty box labeled “TOYS” was littered with everything from painted wooden blocks to fluffy stuffed animals. In and around the play area were five hyperactive children, who all stopped and stared as soon as the newcomer approached. It was a fear response that made Coach’s heart ache – nobody that young should be that scared.

“It’s okay, everyone,” Ryan called soothingly. “This is Coach and he’ll be with us for today.”

The three older kids regarded him with suspicion, while the younger pair approached curiously. Coach started to kneel to be on their level, but stopped with a stifled groan. He looked imploringly at Ryan, who absentmindedly said “Oh!” and procured a small plastic chair. Coach sank onto it with relief and leaned forward to greet his new charges.

Lily, the oldest, was eight, and her younger brother Aiden was six. Mason insisted upon adding “and-a- _half_!” to his seven years. Taliyah and Dylan, both two, were introduced by Ryan, as their babbling was not intelligible yet.

“And we have one more, Olivia, born three weeks ago. She’s with her mother,” Ryan murmured to Coach, then looked brightly at the children. “How about we have story time? Lily, could you please help Taliyah pick a book?”

“But Ry- _yan_ ,” Mason whined, “She’s gonna pick a _baby_ book!”

“It’s Taliyah’s turn,” Ryan said firmly. “You can choose one after, okay?”

Negotiations took a little while, but an agreement was eventually struck. Coach’s dramatic reading of _The Very Hungry Caterpillar_ was followed by selected passages from _Where the Sidewalk Ends_ , and then a mandatory Bible discussion. Coach loved every second, and to his great joy, the children seemed to as well. His mood fell slightly when he couldn’t get down on the floor and play with the younger ones, but it was also time for Lily, Mason, and Aiden to have their lessons.

Classes included the standard reading, writing, and arithmetic, but there was something extra that no normal elementary school had ever taught. After lunch was brought to them and the terrible twos were napping, Ryan gave the children Zombie Survival 101.

They’d learned the names and capabilities of the special infected. They knew to be vigilant and not to make loud noises. They had been over the rules of gun safety enough that the day’s practical activity included deconstruction and cleaning of a small pistol. Next, Ryan picked up from the middle of a lecture on anatomy. Not first aid, though; they’d covered that before anything else.

He was teaching them where to hit.

“Remember what these are called? Mason?”

“Tendons!”

“Good. And Lily, can you tell Coach what you know about tendons?”

“They keep the muscles on the bones so you can move around,” she said soberly.

“Very good. Now, when you’re fighting the infected, remember that their bodies still mostly work like ours do. If you cut the tendons in their legs, they won’t be able to walk.” Ryan indicated some key points on the sketch he’d drawn on the blackboard. “Sometimes they’ll still try to crawl at you. Do not get close. If you have a gun or a bow, shoot it in the head. Otherwise, just run.”

“But daddy says we hafta kill _all_ the zombies,” Aiden piped up. “He said so, he said he was gonna blow them all to shee-it.”

Coach was surprised when Ryan did not scold the child for language. Instead the other man sighed, brushing his light brown hair away from his forehead. It settled right back into its gentle swoop, but now it was covered in chalk dust.

“That’s for grown-ups to do,” he answered. “It’s way harder than the scouts make it look. You’ll practice on ones that are already dead first, until you get the hang of it.”

“Excuse me?” Coach sat bolt upright, stunned. “Wait, they’re… You’re gonna make ‘em… Fo’ real?” The concept was too awful for him to articulate.

“Well, yeah.” Ryan said matter-of-factly, and gave him an odd look. “How else are they supposed to learn?”

Coach was left speechless. Even worse than the curriculum were the students’ reactions: both serious and eager, like police dogs. They _wanted_ to be taught how to kill.

It made something in him break. He dragged his crutches to him and staggered out of the daycare, ignoring the confused calls from behind.

Blindly he made his way back to the infirmary and crawled into a bed. Theo saw, and came by to check on him; Coach used the tears in his eyes as evidence of pain in his leg, and convinced his medic to put him back on Percocet. The dizzying black mist quickly enveloped his brain, and he gratefully sank into a nothingness where he could not see child soldiers play among the dead.


End file.
